


Scarlet

by qqueenofhades



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-04 20:55:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 39,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qqueenofhades/pseuds/qqueenofhades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Sequel to "Crimson." Killian Jones and Emma Swan are finally engaged and living together in London with their son, but the old ghosts of Neverland are rising, bringing with them a terrible new magic and enemies both strange and intimate. Against the demons of their past, they're going to have to fight harder than ever for their future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Killian still dreamed about those nights in Neverland.

Listening to the susurrus of the waves, the water, the wind, the creak of the _Jolly Roger_ as she rode at anchor, a solitary lantern burning on the bow to keep watch for mermaids. The darkness moving over the face of the deep, the sky brilliant with a thousand stars, so huge and glittering that it seemed a single breath would send them tumbling to earth. The distant silhouette of the island on the horizon, black jungle overgrown in thorny tangles, crown of mountain buried in perpetual grim fog. The crash of waves on Skull Rock, the whispers of the Echo Caves. He’d always wondered what it did with all the secrets it stole from your lips, if it turned them into the fabric of this fey and unnatural place, fashioned your nightmares to order so Neverland knew just how to destroy you. Even after centuries spent there, he still didn’t know, and wasn’t bloody interested in going back to conduct experiments. It was only his two driving forces that had kept him sane: the first time, his desire to live long enough to have revenge on Rumplestiltskin, and the second, his love for Emma Swan and his utter, hell-bent determination to find a way back to her. The third. . . facing wrathful mermaids and murderous Lost Boys, Baelfire and Wendy, the ghosts of his past, nearly losing the son he’d only just discovered he had, faced the forces that wanted to turn him back to Hook for good and all. . .

But he’d beaten it. Three times he’d escaped Neverland and the twisted games of the boy who ruled there, and he was determined for this to be the end. He was so dead-set on not thinking about it, that it wasn’t until the nightmares started that he was forced to face how brutal and how deep the scars were. He told himself that he’d manage. Pan was gone, Neverland’s dark power broken. It couldn’t touch him anymore. Couldn’t hurt him anymore.

 _Free._ He’d wanted that for so long, and yet now that it had come to him, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it, a piece of clothing that no longer fit. But he didn’t want to burden his young family with his old demons. Not when they were finally starting to be one. He knew that Emma was having a tough time with the revelation that her parents were actually Snow White and Prince Charming, that she’d finally gotten her real memories back after a decade of thinking she had been an abused, abandoned foster kid, and that even now, there was some residual curse on Storybrooke that meant its citizens couldn’t leave. That the Evil Queen, the former mayor, was disgraced and deposed, but still dangerous. That even though Emma knew now who she really was, those ten years of solitude couldn’t be turned off like a switch. She couldn’t just go back to being trusting and happy, the naïve small-town girl raised by her loving parents. She wasn’t that person anymore, and as he knew from bitter experience, would never be again.

That was part of why she had been so eager to move to England with him. She needed space from all that, time to process. But there was, as Killian knew, a fine line between needing space and running away, and he wasn’t sure where, or when, to bring up the issue with her. He trusted Emma’s judgment intimately, believed fully in her ability to make the best decision for herself, but as he was struggling with the traumatic legacy of Neverland, the secrets it had revealed, the lives it had changed, he could see that she was as well. Asking her to face Storybrooke would mean asking him to do the same. It was only fair. And he didn’t know if he could.

Besides, there was so much else to think about. Their new home in Kensington: setting up house, getting David enrolled at his new school, and Killian re-established in his teaching position at Oxford. He’d had plenty of fast talking to do to the head tutor at Wadham College, who was relieved but baffled that Professor Killian Jones had appeared from the blue seven years after vanishing into it, short a hand and an explanation but insistent that he wanted his job back and was ready to prove it however necessary. He told her that he was engaged, had one child and another on the way, and hence was ready to abandon his wayward bachelor lifestyle and settle down to sedate domestic responsibility. Eventually, something worked. Michaelmas Term had started three weeks ago, and he was tutoring three undergraduates, giving a lecture series on the eighteenth-century Royal Navy and British maritime history, preparing a paper for a prestigious conference in the spring, and otherwise settling back into academia. He’d rented a flat in Oxford, but was trying to commute from London, in order to spend as much time as possible with his family. The baby was due at the end of February, and he intended, after missing it all with David, to be there for Emma every step of the way.

And so, now, settled in his Wadham office on this cold October morning, watching windblown students chase their umbrellas down Parks Road, Killian was doing his best to ignore the other issue he preferred not to think about: the fact that the loss of his hand was proving to be more of an inconvenience by the day.  Typing and note-taking were a bloody pain in the arse, and the constant stares or awkward questions were wearing thin on his nerves. Sometimes he sorely missed his hook, which he had thrown into the Thames upon his return from Neverland. He couldn’t have kept it, not with everything it represented, how he was still afraid it would be too easy to fall back. But after three hundred years, he’d learned how to do most things with it. Getting back his hand after his deal with the fairies, that had been heaven. . . but then he had lost it again at Pan’s blade, and he wasn’t going to get a third chance. This was it.

Killian had tried a few clumsy prosthetics, but they invariably drove him crazy, and despite the generous inheritance he had been left in Wendy Darling’s will, most of that had gone to buying their house in London. A junior Oxford professor did not make enough to purchase the top-of-the-line device he wanted, and he was afraid of appearing selfish by asking Emma if they could splurge for one. And even more afraid of appearing selfish to himself.

“Son of a _bitch,”_ Killian muttered, having now reached for his coffee cup with his stump for the third time and set it rocking dangerously atop the pile of essays it was balanced on. He still had to mark those before the weekend, but he couldn’t summon up the motivation to wade through the delights of undergraduate prose just yet. All he could look forward to was the fact that it was Friday, and Emma and David were taking the train up from London this afternoon; they’d spend the weekend exploring Oxford and the countryside. Good, quality family time, the kind to make him feel better about still keeping so much from them. When he strolled with Emma down Merton Street’s quaint cobbles, when he ran after his son in Christ Church Meadow, whooping and laughing, he felt whole, despite all his damages. David didn’t care that his father only had one hand. He cared that he _did_ have a father, after so long. That was what was important. That was what Killian needed to remember.

“You’re the bloody luckiest bastard on the face of the planet, Jones,” he reminded himself. Talking aloud; another old habit of Neverland, when he sometimes wasn’t sure who was really there, or if it was only him, had only ever been him. “Stop your griping and be happy about it.”

His face stared back at him from the laptop screen. It did not look particularly happy. Thin, pale, cheeks sunken, dark stubble unshaven, blue eyes hollowed out in the fine, angular bones of his face, black hair untidy. Killian had taken to wearing reading glasses, something else that made him wonder if after three hundred years of youth and immortality, however ill-gotten, he was finally starting to age, to grow old. And while he should have, he had never quite learned how not to be afraid of death. As bitter, as bleak, as hopeless as his life had been, still somehow he’d gotten used to it. The thought of facing it, after so long. . .

Once again, he told himself that it didn’t matter. He had Emma; he would rather spend one lifetime with her, than face all the ages of the world alone. He’d done that for too long, and knew its terrible, soul-sucking price. If becoming mortal again meant her and David and their child to come, he’d do it. He would. With no second thoughts and no second glances. Yet still, like this, one-handed, short-sighted, an old man, an old useless man. . .

Suddenly, with a violence that startled him, Killian slammed his computer shut and shoved back from his desk, surging to his feet in a wild flash of anger that abated as quickly as it had come – leaving him standing in the middle of his office breathing hard and not quite sure what to do with himself. They’d been coming more and more often, these liminal spaces where he wasn’t Killian and wasn’t Hook – was caught between both, pitched headlong into nothingness and struggling to steal a gulp of air before the water closed over him again. _Drowning._ He’d been near to it a few times in his long and eventful career as a sailor. This was what it felt like.

“No,” he muttered, shaking his head. He wasn’t like this anymore; he’d pulled himself from the abyss and damned if he wanted to go back. Nonetheless, his concentration was shot. He’d been working hard all week, and it wouldn’t be the end of the world if he took a brief break.

Killian shrugged on his jacket and scarf, slung his leather satchel across his shoulder in case the urge should strike to grade papers whilst away, and trotted down the stairs, out across the lawn, and through the side gate, out into Broad Street. He hung a smart right into Blackwell’s Bookshop, and headed up to Caffé Nero. It was bustling, warm, weakly sunlit, crowded with students, and it made him feel better. He stepped up to the counter, ordered a fresh coffee and a cinnamon bun, and was fumbling for his wallet to pay when someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me, but you’re out in public like that? You’re frightening children!”

Killian tensed, fleeting moment of peace destroyed. Turning, he saw it was some middle-aged busybody, staring in disapproval at his missing hand, and he let her see his teeth when he smiled. “Terribly sorry,” he said pleasantly. “Lost it in the war, you know.”

She blanched, at which he felt no shred of guilt whatsoever. That was his standard response whenever he wanted to make someone feel bad for butting into his private business; they were far less willing to utter a word against their precious bloody soldiers than to cast aspersions on him alone. _If you only knew how frightening I can be, you’d never sleep again._ Without a word, he scooped up coffee and pastry, ignoring the cashier’s tentative enquiry if he’d like help, sir, and navigated to a corner table. No, he didn’t want bloody help. He wanted his hand back. Emma might insist that it didn’t bother her, and David might not notice, but it mattered to Killian. Gods, it did. Mattered so much that it felt like battery acid taking apart his insides, mattered so much that it scared him. Because Killian Jones only knew how to do one thing with that kind of passion, and it wasn’t to give up.

It _was_ possible. He’d avoided thinking about it, not wanting to give himself ideas, but the fact remained. Magic could accomplish almost anything, for a price, and there was magic in Storybrooke again, albeit no one who would be disposed to wield it on his behalf. Regina was a prisoner and had never liked him, Gold was still missing and liked him even less (though Killian would chop off his other hand before asking the crocodile for a bloody toothpick, far less a favor of this magnitude) and no one else had enough power. Yet part of Killian’s research here in Oxford involved finding a way to break the residual curse on Storybrooke, the one preventing its people from crossing the town line, and he wondered suddenly that if he did that, would the magic leak out as well? If so, if he could conveniently keep from uncovering the solution until they worked a way to give him what he wanted, that would be the best course of –

 _No._ Horrified, he halted himself in his tracks. It had been far too easy to slip back into that, that selfishness where his was the only happiness that mattered. He was well aware that he had no slack to spare. They might be engaged, living together, and expecting their second child, apparently happily ever after at last after their years of missing or damaging or destroying each other, but Emma knew too much about him. If he went down that dark path again, she might be understanding. Or she might not.

Killian gazed at his cinnamon bun, appetite gone. He got to his feet abruptly and left it there, along with his half-drunk coffee, then wove through the crowded tables and overloaded bookbags, down the stairs, and back out into the brisk autumn air.  Headed up the steps of the Bodleian Library across the way, adroitly shouldered through the courtyard full of tourists, and inside, up the creaking stairs to the gallery reading room. Then he filled out a call slip at the librarian’s desk and waited, pacing back and forth. More research. It was the only way to drown out the nattering guilt in the back of his head. The sense that he wasn’t doing enough, that he should have tried something else, or perhaps didn’t want to –

“Dr. Jones?”

He glanced up with a start; he still hadn’t gotten used to being called that again. “Aye?”

“I have your order.” The head librarian beckoned him over. “As you’ll be aware, it’s only usable in the special reading room, so if you’ll step this way and put on the gloves – glove, sorry – ”

“Never mind,” Killian muttered grimly, feeling a sudden urge to disembowel even this inoffensive, bespectacled bibliophile. He pulled on the glove with his teeth and stepped into the reading room, unsealing the case and removing the manuscript. Handwritten, dating from the late 1770s, the work of some old professor at Merton named Crane; his was one of the few oeuvres Killian had found that consistently dealt with curses, the strange and esoteric and occult. But no matter how much he searched the cramped, ornate script, he couldn’t find anything that seemed to pertain to their particular problem. Just an arseload of taradiddle about witnesses and horsemen and plague, fire, flood, and famine, unless –

Unless. Killian’s finger stopped suddenly, tapping the worn brown paper. There _was_ this bit about blood magic, about undoing ties that bound. Shocking that Crane had written that in the starched, prim, proper Anglican hothouse of Oxford in the eighteenth century and not been promptly carted off to the lunatic asylum, but then, he had clearly taken care to keep this secret. So there _might_ be a way to dissolve the last of Storybrooke’s curse. Blood magic was the darkest, the foulest, the most dangerous of all. . . but undoubtedly the most effective, if all they wanted was the job done. Yet at what price?

Troubled, he jotted down a few notes, skimmed through the rest of the manuscript, and checked his list to see if there were any other leads to investigate before he had to get back for his afternoon tutorials. None of them were likely to be out on call; they all tended strongly toward the obscure. The School of Night, Invisible College, Star Chamber. . . all of England’s historical magicians and mysterious manipulators, dismissed as a load of tosh by the upright academic establishment. Killian often wondered how much trouble he’d get into if his superiors found out about his actual work here, or if he could spin it off as research for a book about folk magic and secret societies. But the arcane, the weird and wild and sorcerous, had existed in this world long before the Evil Queen and her curse. It was just a matter of putting the right pieces together.

He checked his watch. Intriguing as these possibilities were, they’d have to wait for tomorrow. He reconstituted Crane’s manuscript, put it back in the case, and returned it to the reading room desk, then submitted his bag to the perfunctory search at the door and exited the Bod, determined not to think that he was grateful. Emma wouldn’t want it done with dark magic, so why follow that avenue? Good thing (or was it?) that the crocodile was missing, that Robert Gold hadn’t been seen in Storybrooke since the day he double-crossed Killian and Emma, stole the magic retrieved from Maleficent under the library, and made his way to Neverland. Where he’d gone from there, Killian had no clue. Hell, hopefully. But if he _had_ still been in Storybrooke. . . there was no way they could break that curse, unleash the bastard on the world. . .

Killian was halfway back to Wadham when he felt it. Something invisible pummeling him in the chest, stronger than the autumn wind, as if it had gone through him, stomach to spine, making him stagger. He stopped dead on the sidewalk in front of the King’s Arms, trying to regain himself, knowing beyond all doubt that something had just happened but hell if he could tell what. It wasn’t good. That could only be some kind of. . . well. . . magic. Some new force emerging in the world, something he had thought he was done with.

It felt too damned much like Neverland.

Utterly unnerved, Killian nonetheless regained his dignity and completed the short walk back to college, ducking into the porter’s lodge and retrieving his post from his pigeon hole. Throwing it into his satchel, he broke into a run across the quad, suddenly overcome with the urge to phone Emma and see if she was all right. _Fool. It’s nothing to do with her, get hold of yourself._ Nonetheless, he didn’t stop until he’d hurtled up the stairs to his office, unlocked the door with suddenly shaking fingers, and stepped inside.

Nothing. No one. Everything where he had left it. Gods, he needed to stop spooking at his own shadow. Life here in the comfortable confines of Oxford was dulling his edge, making him back into the professor and not the pirate. Perhaps he should start training again with his sword; one-handed or not, there were few who could match him when blades came out in earnest. _Once upon a time, that was._ And who was he intending to fight, anyway?

He threw the mail viciously on his desk, wishing he could find a better way to express his vexation, and fished his mobile out of his pocket, debating the merits of calling Emma. Likely she’d felt nothing, was getting the tasks of her Friday done before preparing to come up with David. He’d see her tonight, and she’d tell him if anything odd had happened. No use worrying her unduly beforehand.

Killian put the phone down, forcing himself to clear his head. Bloody hell if this hadn’t been the bitch of a day, but it would soon be over. He’d be better with Emma, he always was. Tonight if he had another one of those dreams about Neverland, she’d be there in bed with him to make it go away, to sort out the hazy space between memory and reality that he seemed to be having so much trouble finding these days. Just a few more hours, then he’d leave here and go meet them at the train station. He lived for the knowledge of it.

A rueful smile twisted his lip, and he let out a long, jagged breath, pulling his chair up to his desk and removing the essay for the student that he expected in twenty minutes. Good style, but he wanted to see better command of the sources, and a more consistent thesis. But he had barely started marking in a few additional corrections when he heard the creaking tread of footsteps on the stair. Early, but then, most students in Oxford were overachievers.

A knock on his door.

“Oy, give me one minute,” he called, underlining a particularly troublesome sentence in red. “Then you can – ”

“No, Killian.” The door opened. “No more waiting.”

At the sound of it, he turned to ice and stone. Could feel hundreds of years fleeing from him, could feel the ground beneath his feet crumbling, could feel himself falling, falling, _falling_ , into a place where only darkness and memory haunted him, where this wasn’t possible, where he was hearing anything but what he had just – _no,_ it wasn’t –

His voice came out in a croak.

“ _You_.”

“Hello, little brother.” Liam Jones smiled. “It’s been a long time.”


	2. Chapter 2

As the train sped through the low green countryside, mantled in rich late-afternoon sunshine, Emma Swan dug her fingernails into her palms and told herself, for approximately the dozenth time, to keep it together. Even if keeping it together was the last thing she felt capable of doing after this morning, after Henry (was it Henry? The real Henry? Someone playing a sick, _sick_ joke?) turning up on her doorstep out of the blue and telling her he'd come to find her and Neal, that Pan always got what he wanted. That was all. When she demanded for him to explain himself, he shrugged and said that he thought he'd made it clear. He'd be around. She was the one who should start looking for him. If she wanted to be his mother. If she didn't want to fail him. The consequences of that decision could only be. . .

"Could only be what?" she'd shouted after him. "What do you _want_ from me?"

"You know, Emma." He cocked an eyebrow at her. "Time to stop denying it."

And with that, he trotted down the steps, then off along the street. She watched him the entire time, waiting for him to evanesce into thin air, cast no shadow (he _was_ Pan, wasn't he?) or otherwise give some sign that he was less than completely and concretely real. But no could do. Not that easy. For all intents and purposes, the son who had never really existed, the son she'd lost in Neverland. . . actually existed. And he wasn't just a dream anymore. He was here.

Emma knew she should be ecstatic. What she felt instead was terrified. If Neverland's magic was somehow on the loose, if something had changed when they left, if they'd broken the balance. . . Henry _was_ her son, born when she lost her memories at the age of nineteen, a college sophomore in Boston mixed up in something she didn't yet understand. She had always felt the hole he'd left. But he was also, well. . . a villain. A subtle and dangerous and unnatural kid, leader of a vicious pack of Lost Boys, the king of a demented dark island where you never grew up and you never got out. To have him gadding around genteel London neighborhoods now couldn't bode well for anyone. He'd cut off Killian's _hand,_ for Christ's sake. And nearly killed her, driving the blade into her heart, the moment when she finally remembered who she was. All along, Henry had wanted to bring her and David to Neverland, but then, after he had finally succeeded, they'd gotten away, returned to the real world. _So he flew to our window. Just like Peter in the stories. Pan never really dies, I guess. Not as long as one person believes in him. And I opened the bedroom window this morning. I gave him the opportunity. I let him in._

God. She sorely wanted this to be a dream, a trick, an illusion, and felt even guiltier for it. Peter Pan wanted a mother, she knew. Did it fill him with jealousy to see her as one now? She had David, of course, and then the new baby on the way, a family that seemed to have no place for Henry. Did he just want to destroy that, that happiness? But there had to be something else. Another reason. The ghosts of Neverland returning to haunt her. _Why? Why?_

"Mom?" David's voice startled her out of her reverie. "Mom, how much longer?"

"I – I don't know." Emma rubbed her eyes, leaning back in the uncomfortable train seat. This was a local commuter service, crowded with people getting out of London for the weekend; they could have taken the express and made it to Oxford in half the time, but that was peak fare, and she had bought the cheaper off-peak tickets without even thinking about it. She hadn't gotten used to the fact that they were, if not lavishly wealthy, comfortably well off. She still clipped coupons and went bargain-hunting at the co-op, got inventive with fixing things, the habits she'd lived by in those years as a struggling single mom, barely scraping by in their spartan South Boston apartment. Her first instinct when David asked for a treat was still to tell him no, they couldn't afford it. Even if there _was_ enough money these days, she couldn't shake the notion that it was ephemeral, conditional, too good to be true. She had to be careful.

"Well, this is taking for _ever_ ," David said petulantly, kicking his feet. An energetic seven-year-old being forced to sit still for an hour and a half on slow-moving public transportation was not the recipe for joy in Mudville. And Emma had been so distracted that she'd barely remembered to grab their overnight bags, much less a book or a Gameboy for him. "And I'm hungry."

"There are crackers in my bag. Don't ruin your appetite, we're going to dinner with Killian."

David looked surprised. "Why do you still call him that?"

"What?" It was Emma's turn to be taken off guard. "What do you mean?"

"Most other moms would call him Dad, or Daddy." David eyed her shrewdly, with that blue gaze that was, in fact, the spitting image of his father's. "Aren't you happy he's back?"

That horrified her. "God, yes! I want him here, I want him with us, don't ever doubt that. I'm just. . . not in the habit."

David made a face at her, and she made one back at him. Glancing up at the display board, she saw that they were just pulling into Reading – another twenty or thirty-odd minutes to Oxford, then, depending on which stops they made. David was right, this was taking too long. "So," she said, in a determined attempt to change the subject. "How's school?"

He gave her a jaded look, but gracefully consented. "I like it. All the kids think I'm really cool because I'm American. Or they think I'm really stupid. But it's okay. I've made a lot of friends. I miss baseball, but I'm picking up soccer. They were confused when I called it that, though."

"Yeah. It's football around here, kid." Emma raised an eyebrow. "You're okay, though? You don't miss Boston – or Storybrooke?" There had been a lot of change for him in the last year, even without the attempted kidnapping by August Booth and the excursion to Neverland and nearly dying ( _actually_ dying, but she couldn't think about that) at the hands of a pack of vengeful mermaids. She had, after much trial and error and several notes from David's teachers, firmly imprinted on him that that was something he did _not_ talk about outside the family. The last thing she needed was him sent to a shrink in second grade (or Year 2, whatever). What with everything, he was likely to wind up there anyway. "I mean. . . there's a lot to get used to."

"I know, but it's okay," David said thoughtfully. "I like it. It's an adventure. London's really nice. We have my dad. And you're happy. You never used to be back in Boston."

Emma opened her mouth, then shut it, devoutly grateful that David hadn't noticed anything out of place. "Yeah," she admitted. "I am. There are a lot of things better now."

"Uh-huh." David hiked up a knee. "One question, though."

Her stomach lurched. "What?" she said carefully, hoping her panic didn't show on her face.

"Why do they call trucks lorries?"

Emma almost laughed in relief. "No idea. They have a lot of weird words, huh?"

"They think _mine_ are weird," David countered, with tragic pathos. "Are we there yet?"

Emma checked her watch. "Fifteen more minutes."

David groaned and sprawled out on the seat, only snapping upright when she smacked him on the shoulder. She'd always run a tight ship; between her and Killian, she was definitely the disciplinarian. David had already learned that if he really wanted something, he should ask his father. Emma knew that Killian was still getting used to the idea of having a family, was desperately anxious to ingratiate himself with David, and she didn't blame him for trying to make up for the lost years. She did hope, however, that there would be a line in the sand. David didn't need a best buddy or a gravy train; he needed a father. And she didn't want to turn into the "mean mommy." Emma had been their son's sole parent for six years, and while that wasn't Killian's fault, she still found herself resenting the fact that he was the one who got to dole out the good stuff and be adored for it. _You could try it yourself, you know. But then, you don't want David to turn into one of those brats who thinks he can have whatever money can buy._ After living his entire life as a "poor kid," swinging him to the other side of the pendulum all at once was not the way to go.

Annoyed, and more disquieted than ever, Emma shifted her position again, trying to decide if she could wait until they got to Oxford to use the bathroom. She was only five months pregnant, but it often felt as if the baby was settled directly atop her bladder; she didn't want to imagine how bad the third trimester was going to be. Something else to worry about at a future date. And they had just left Radley; they were almost there.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, the city unfolded out of the autumn dusk, lights twinkling warmly among the warren of streets and a smear of deep rose-gold lingering in the west. Emma blew out a long breath and stood up, hefting the bags to her shoulder. "All right, kiddo," she said, as the train sighed to a stop. "Let's go."

David trotted at her heels as she fed their tickets to the barrier and stepped through into the busy station. Yes, a loo stop (look at her, thinking Brit) was definitely going to be in order. Then they could head out to dinner, which she also had a vested interest in. She'd probably cook at least once before she and David headed back to London on Sunday night, as Killian's lack of a hand meant that he wasn't exactly Master Chef; he tended to live on sandwiches and takeaways during term time. But she was glad that it wasn't tonight; she was so discombobulated that she'd probably set the flat on fire. Unless –

"Daddy!"

The gleeful shout echoed across the station, and Emma turned in time to see David launch himself at a jacket and scarf-clad Killian, just emerging from the crowd. He grinned broadly as he caught his son and hoisted him up for a hug, David hanging around his neck before Killian grunted in exaggerated agony and set him down. "Bloody hell, lad, are you growing again?"

"Probably. _And_ I've got a loose tooth. Look." David wiggled it, brimming with pride.

"Brilliant," Killian assured him, then turned to Emma. "And good evening to you too, my lady."

She rolled her eyes, but allowed him to give her a quick peck on the cheek. Just from one glance, however, she could tell there was something up. His face was pale, pinched, strained, eyes heavily shadowed, a line drawing his thick dark brows together. As she took his offered hand, she hissed, "Killian, what's wrong?"

He hesitated a split second too long. "Nothing, love. Come on, how about that supper, aye? You both must be bloody famished."

Emma narrowed her eyes at him, then decided to let it, for the moment, slide. Five minutes later, after she'd attended to the necessities, they were on their way, heading out of the station and crossing the bridge over the canal lined with riverboats, breath crisping silver in the chilly air and distant bells sounding the evensong. It being Friday night, the city centre was humming with buses and pedestrians, and they fell in among the throngs scouring for a suitable restaurant, that mystical balance between fine dining and Pizza Hut. Finally, they ended up at a bistro on George Street, which looked liable to serve something they would all eat, and headed in. The hostess was about to seat them at a table in the front, but Killian unexpectedly jumped in and asked if they couldn't please have one in the back instead.

Emma frowned at him again as they settled in, removing coats and sweaters. Their waiter appeared and asked if they'd care to see the wine list, but she wasn't drinking, obviously, and Killian declined as well. Then while David was engrossed in the children's menu, she kicked her dearest fiancé in the ankle. _"What the hell?"_ she mouthed.

He shook his head, smiling, but she saw his eyes flicker to the window, as if in search of someone with their nose pressed to the glass. Emma glanced reflexively as well, but saw nothing. Jesus, the hell was he doing? Unless – oh god, tell her that Henry hadn't somehow teleported up to Oxford to pay Killian a visit as well, threatened him to leave her or something even worse, Pan facing off against his eternal enemy, Captain Hook. No matter the handsome, well-dressed historian that sat across from her, she could still see who he really was, had been for over three hundred years. Henry had cut off Killian's hand again trying to force him back into the feared, black-hearted pirate for good, and he had damned near succeeded. If this time –

 _No._ Emma shook her head. God, her pregnancy brain was really running away with her. Whatever the reason for Killian's odd behavior, she'd ask him about it later tonight. After she called her parents, which she wasn't exactly looking forward to. She knew that no matter how much they said the right things, they weren't thrilled about her moving so far away right after the curse had finally broken and they were re-memorized and reunited. She'd placated them with reassurances that she and Killian were going to find a way to get rid of the remainder, and that they'd come back for Christmas, which David senior and Mary Margaret had reluctantly accepted. Not that Emma didn't miss them. Not that she didn't love them. But it was a lot to deal with. When the curse's full effects had taken hold, they had been trapped in Storybrooke, frozen in time, not aging another day, while she had spent ten years alone, becoming an adult and a single mother and a working woman and too wise to the ways of the world. Add in the Snow White and Prince Charming part, and the way they'd started talking about a potential return to the Enchanted Forest once everything got sorted out, and. . . yeah. When Killian had asked if she wanted to move to London with him, she hadn't thought twice in accepting.

Emma barely paid attention to what she ordered, and grazed on it sparingly when it finally arrived; she was very hungry, but the food was sticking in her throat. Fortunately, she didn't need to talk much. David was happily filling his father in on the details of his week, and Killian was promising that they'd go catch a film tomorrow, just us lads, and asking David what he wanted to see. David barely hesitated before proudly naming the latest pirate blockbuster.

Emma couldn't help but muffle a grin at the sight of the pained look on Killian's face. She shouldn't find it funny, but despite his misgivings at that dark part of his identity, it never got any less amusing to watch him critique the shortcomings of Hollywood in depicting it. Besides, she certainly didn't begrudge them the time together, and it would give her an opportunity to figure out what the hell to do about Henry. He wouldn't follow her here, would he? Pan always knew how to find the Darling house in London, and their new place (well, not _brand_ new, they'd been living there for over six months, but still) was just across the gardens. _If anywhere, that is where he will find you._ That was what Wendy Darling had said in her will. Had she known this was going to happen? What could she have meant by it? It wasn't exactly an unqualified blessing. The old lady had had so many secrets, and now they were never going to –

"Killian! Darling!"

All three members of the Swan-Jones family jerked upright – particularly Emma – and stared as a svelte blonde woman in a red cashmere sweater came zooming across the restaurant toward them. What looked like real rubies sparkled at her throat and ears as she bent down to dust an air kiss across Killian's cheek, then straightened up, gazing at Emma and David. "Oh, this must be your wife? _And_ son? Darling, you never said anything about them! It's been so long!"

Emma's spine stiffened. She twisted the ring on her left fourth finger: still the old silver one he'd given her when he proposed on the _Roger,_ when they were sailing to London on their way to rescue David _._ Killian had said he'd buy her a diamond if she wanted, but she'd told him not to waste money on it. It was just jewelry, just a rock. "Fiancée, actually. And you are?"

The woman put a glittering hand to her mouth. "Oh, I'm so sorry. Has he really not mentioned me either? Anastasia, Anastasia Castle. Don't mind me, just dropping in, I must dash. Tickets for the theater, you know. Have a _lovely_ night!" With that, and a facetious little flutter of a wave, she turned and sped off again, leaving a whiff of a rich dark perfume in her wake.

Emma sat completely still for several seconds, telling herself that it wasn't what it looked like. Even as she was reviewing Killian's strange behavior, the way he hadn't wanted to sit near the window. . . it wasn't her business if he'd. . . but no woman wanted to see another woman greet her extremely handsome and charming soon-to-be husband like that, especially when. . .

Her voice, despite all her efforts, sounded tight and flat when she spoke. "So. What was that?"

Killian looked as stupefied as she felt. "I have no bloody idea."

"Sure you don't."

"I don't, all right? Anastasia Castle. . . she taught literature at Wadham, we met when I was here the first time, after I left Boston College. But it's not as if we were bosom compatriots. I haven't seen her in years. I didn't even know she was still at Oxford."

Emma's lie detector wanted to believe him, but it always tended to get unreliable when her emotions were involved. "Sure," she said, her voice still sounding too tightly wound. "Old friend. Faculty colleague. No big deal." Christ, he must have met thousands of women in the course of a centuries-long life. If she started suspecting the worst of all of them, she'd go fucking crazy. He'd met Anastasia long before they were anything remotely resembling a couple. She couldn't hold it against him if there _had_ been something.

"I mean it," Killian insisted. "Lass, look at me. Look at me."

Slowly, Emma raised her gaze to his. "Okay."

"I promise," he said, speaking slowly and clearly. "There's nothing to be worried about."

Emma tried to repress a flinch. Didn't know what to think. Because that one had come through loud and clear. As if she hadn't guessed it from his antics earlier. From whatever the hell he was up to.

He was lying.

* * *

Not wanting to provoke a confrontation in front of their son, she held her tongue for the rest of dinner. David asked if they could have dessert, Emma said no, and Killian said of course, it was his treat. So they walked up to Little Clarendon Street for gelato, then continued out to Jericho, a trendy, bohemian neighborhood in North Oxford featuring boutiques, beatnik bookstores, cafes, pubs, greengrocers, galleries, Oxford University Press, the tavern where Radiohead had played their first gigs, and brick rowhouses on tree-lined terraces. Killian's rented flat was on the second floor of one of these, and he led them through the garden to the side door, unlocking the deadbolt and ushering them up the creaky stairs. The excitement of the day and the end of the school week was finally catching up with David, and he mustered shockingly little protest when Emma packed him off to bed on the fold-out sofa. Then she followed Killian into his room and shut the door with a snap. "I want an explanation."

Killian, who had clearly thought that her eagerness to get him alone owed to something else entirely, looked blindsided. "Sorry?"

"Can it, Jones." Fuck, this was the last conversation she had wanted to have tonight, after this morning, after this day, after this. "Let me spell it out for you. I want an explanation for why, back there at the restaurant when you said there was nothing to worry about, you lied to me."

"I – Emma, what?" He raked his hand through his dark hair, disheveling it further. "Where in the hell you think I'd have the time or the inclination or the opportunity to start a scurrilous affair with someone I haven't seen in almost a decade, I don't – "

"Fine. _If_ we accept that the fetching Ms. Castle doesn't have anything to do with this, then what's going on? Don't think I didn't notice your shenanigans earlier."

A muscle worked in his cheek. He appeared unable to decide whether to be amused. Then he blew out a breath. "Very well. I've been having. . . episodes. Flashbacks, I suppose you call them. Where I'm not quite Killian and not quite Hook, and I can't focus on where I am or what I'm doing. I want my hand back, I want it more than bloody anything, and it's making me question whether I can do my best work in finding a way to break the remaining curse on Storybrooke. I'm afraid that if I do, the magic will leak out, and then I will never find a way. I'm afraid it will be too easy for me to be a selfish bastard because of it, and that's the last thing I want."

Emma's heart softened. Just as she'd heard the lie earlier, she heard the raw, ragged truth in this, and she reached out for him, drawing their foreheads to touch. "If that's the case, though, who were you looking for? Earlier. You didn't want to be seen by something. Someone."

"It's stupid, lass." He brushed her nose with his lips. "But. . . this afternoon, the stress got to me, caused me to momentarily crack and start talking to a hallucination who wasn't there, someone who has been gone a very long time. I was afraid that it would happen again, I'd lose all grip on reality, and then you'd have to bundle me off to the madhouse."

"Oh." That wasn't as bad as Emma had feared, although still somewhat alarming. It did give her a lurch to hear that on the same day she'd received a visit from a ghost of her past, so (apparently) had he. But at least his had just been fantasy, a figment of his overworked imagination, and she kissed his nose in return. "You sure you can handle this term? They did kind of throw you into the deep end."

"Of course," Killian retorted, sounding miffed. "I have no doubts in my ability to manage my own job. I just. . . could do without the bloody nonsense."

"You and the rest of us," Emma murmured. Yeah, she'd had enough of talking for the night. She turned slightly, slid in, and kissed him.

Killian gave a small grunt, hand coming up to cradle the back of her head, breathing huskily through his nose as the kiss deepened, wet and warm and open-mouthed, lips working slow and thoroughly. They crab-walked backwards to the bed and tumbled onto it together, clawing into each other's arms, craving the closeness, the contact. Killian slowly knuckled down the knobs of Emma's spine, catching the clasp of her bra with his thumb and deftly flipping it open as she unbuttoned her blouse. He rolled her over onto her back, his hand tracing a path from her collarbone to her chest and across the rounded bulge of her belly, then lower.

She shuddered as he slipped one finger delicately inside her, teasing her sensitive folds, the stump of his left arm resting on her hip. The joys of being in a committed relationship, where she could get some any time she wanted, were still strange and new to her. Not trashy, anonymous one-night stands, fumbling around with things that didn't fit or didn't feel good, but a lover who knew her body intimately, cherished it, didn't have to wonder if that was where she liked it. A novelty, after so long spent in nun-like celibacy. In the six years of Killian's disappearance, when she didn't know if he was alive or dead or if she would ever see him again, she'd had sex only three times. Never seen or called or thought about any of the men again. Now, she felt positively libertine. Could never seem to quite get enough, drunk on him.

Killian slid a second finger into her, opening her, as he moved down between her legs, his hot mouth kissing, licking, tasting her wetness, his stubble scratching the tender skin on the inside of her thighs. Her hips arched to meet his tongue as he played her clit, keeping up a slow and steady pressure, and she uttered a breathy moan as his mouth kept time with his hand. For someone who had spent as long as he had thinking and caring only about himself, he was a remarkably unselfish lover, tended to enjoy her pleasure even more than his own – but there were still times when the ruthless pirate captain would resurface, when he'd fuck her into hot white oblivion on the nearest available flat surface, when they'd rut all night, catch their breath and go at it again, clawing, biting, desperate to change skins, to drown out the darkness, to hold onto each other against the demons that still hunted them both. He understood when she locked up, didn't quite trust herself to be touched, to be caught if she fell. She understood if he broke, if it was this night or some other, if he was adrift on the wild, haunted waters of Neverland. In some very real way, despite the sheer impossibility of their meeting, of centuries and worlds and curses and everything else, they were quite simply made for each other.

Emma twisted and gasped, clutching Killian's hair, as her climax came on her sudden as a summer storm, sending pulsating shudders of energy through her body and making her toes curl. He removed himself with a look of smug satisfaction, and let her have a moment to recuperate, as he shucked his unbuttoned shirt and crumpled khakis and tossed them on the floor. Then he lay down next to her again and took hold of her hip with his good hand, pulling her on top of him, as she swung a knee over him and straddled him, loosened hair tumbling in clouds around her face. She grasped his shoulders, whimpering in the back of her throat, as his hot, heavy hardness pressed against her slick opening. She bent down and kissed him, pulling his lower lip between her teeth, as he entered her with one quick jerk, then worked his way deeper in deliberate, circling strokes.

Emma let out another whimper as he finally seated himself all the way inside her, sitting half upright and pulling her onto his lap, her breasts and belly pressed against the dark-furred muscles of his chest. She'd miss this when she got too big to comfortably do it face to face, but they'd figure something out. And she didn't want to think about anything except being here, now, with him, with him in her, cock moving in and out as she rode him with long, rhythmic thrusts, leaning forward to let him find every secret inch of her, her mouth open to gasp short gulps of air as they moved together. His fingers circled her sensitive nipple, cupping the deep curve of her breast, tangling in her hair, as she leaned back and pulled him down, as he braced his weight on his elbows and used his hips, stimulating a sweet sparkling friction and steadily building intensity that made her writhe. She kissed the old white scar on his cheek and the shadows under his eyes. He thrust into her, once and then twice and then three times hard, and she careered up to the high point of pleasure once more as he lost it, spilling himself with a curse and a hissing gasp of her name. "Emma. . . _Emma. . ._ gods, _Emma. . ."_

She kissed his ear, panting heavily against his neck as they collapsed, still entangled. He didn't pull out, remaining inside her until she felt him start to stiffen again, and they took the second time more leisurely, slowly, tenderly. Both of them were marked with teeth and tongue and sweat and seed and salt, branded with the taste and touch and smell of each other, by the time they finally turfed themselves out of bed, retrieved their nightclothes, and took turns in the bathroom to wash and prepare for sleep.

As Emma was waiting for Killian to finish, she straightened up the tousled sheets and quilts, then padded out into the dark living room to check on David. He, of course, was happily fast asleep, and she bent down to brush a quick kiss across his forehead. He'd always known she loved him, and their "date nights" back in Boston had involved ice cream, a movie, and a cuddle on the couch, but if she was going to tell Killian to cut back on the largesse, perhaps she should likewise start showing her affection a little more. David was really a great kid, and she was lucky to have him. Beyond lucky, in fact. The image of his lifeless little body in Killian's arms, dripping wet and drowned on that Neverland beach, shadowed her nightmares. She couldn't even think about what she would have done if that was actually goodbye. Even if she'd had a dozen more kids (no thank you, she had a feeling two would be enough) she could never have replaced him.

Thinking about that, and then about the fact that she more accurately had or would soon have _three_ children, made a cold grue run down Emma's back. Henry. God, it always came back to Henry. Was there any way to contact him, find out what he wanted, like a negotiator coming to the table with a ransom offer? Where was he now? He wasn't sleeping under some bridge in Westminster, was he? Had he just flown back to Neverland after appearing to deliver his little bombshell? She didn't think so, somehow. It was cold out there. Getting on in October. And for a boy, a real boy who might or might not know anything about the real world. . .

She shuddered again. There was nothing she could do about it now. She kissed David's forehead again, then caught sight of the clock: 11:39 PM. Shit. In the drama of confronting Killian, she'd completely forgotten about calling her parents. The time difference meant that it was only 6:39 back in Storybrooke, but she didn't think she was up for taking thirty or forty minutes out of the post-coital glow to dutifully fill them in on the status of life across the pond. She'd do it tomorrow; they couldn't be all that talkative on Friday night after a long workweek either. David was still at the animal shelter, Mary Margaret at the elementary school, the jobs they'd held their entire lives (or cursed lives, rather). They'd moved back in together, in the rambling old Victorian Emma had been raised in, which until recently her father had shared with his cursed second wife, Kathryn. Speaking of awkward conversations to have. . .

Emma's mouth twisted wryly. In terms of relationship drama, she really had gotten off fairly easily. And the light under the bathroom door had gone out, so it looked as if Killian was done and it was her turn. She turned, on her way in – then froze in mid-step.

From here, the living room looked out over the front walk, and what would have been, in the normal course of things, a quiet, dark residential street. Only for the fact that it wasn't. In the dim glow of the porch lights, she could see the tall, dark silhouette of a man standing on the sidewalk, head tilted back to gaze directly at the windows of the second-story flat. He was completely motionless as if carved from stone, the night breeze ruffling his hair, but she caught a sudden flash of his eyes in the streetlamp. They were blue.

Completely unnerved, Emma jerked the curtains shut. Then, abruptly, she pulled them open again. If he had taken a step closer, she was calling the police.

He hadn't. In fact, he turned and started to walk down the street, as if he was out for a midnight constitutional and had just stopped for a moment to catch his breath. It _was_ the weekend; he could have had a few beers with his buddies and been momentarily confused about which house was his. She was probably reading too much into it. At least he'd gone away.

Yet as he vanished into the night, Emma couldn't help but think that there was something. . . familiar about him. She'd never seen him before, but the impression was unshakable. Brushing at the edges of her mind like a butterfly's wings, but remaining too faint to be put together into sense. God, this had been a long and unsettling day, starting and ending with eerie visitations. She needed to get to bed, get to sleep, and wake up to a (hopefully) eldritch-specter-free Saturday. Once Killian and David got done with their movie, there'd be strolling and kibitzing to do, coffee or tea or something else. Nice. Nice and normal.

"Emma?" Killian's voice called softly. "Coming, lass?"

"Yeah." She headed in, economically washed up and brushed her teeth, then crawled into bed next to him, her back against his chest, his arm wrapped around her waist. She was tired and very comfortable, the covers warm and heavy, his breathing deep and slow as he dropped off almost immediately, but it was a long time until she finally slipped under into uneasy sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Killian woke in the darkness before dawn, as suddenly and completely as if someone had shouted in his ear. He lay very still, struggling to recollect the dream he’d just been having, some turbulent and circular jumble of synaptic gibberish that had seemed very important at the time, but it had already vanished into the ether, leaving him with nothing but the leaden feeling in his stomach. He was used to rousing early. During his days as an abandoned street urchin, he’d always been up and about before sunrise, one step ahead of the harbormasters and reeves and general ne’er-do-wells who made it their especial business to interfere. Then when Liam found him and conscripted him into the Navy, his existence was ordered by drill and discipline, sharply rebuking layabouts dragging themselves from their bunks with hangovers and contraband bottles of grog. For the rest. . . the only time he could ever recall sleeping in was with Milah. There were too many nights to count, after losing her, where he never slept at all, too broken and hurting and furious. When he finally left Neverland, came to London and decided, under Wendy Darling’s patronage, to go to school and become an academic, his rooms at Trinity College Dublin had been directly under the bell tower, thus ensuring his prompt wakefulness at strict intervals whether he liked it or not. But he didn’t mind. He’d had too long a life, and too dark a one, to ever take comfort in sleep. It came with too many nightmares.

That was all this last one was, he told himself. Just old scars stirred up by the unconscionable shock of seeing his brother yesterday. Something related to the rush of unwelcome magic he’d felt on his way back from the Bodleian, and that sensation unmistakably _Neverland,_ like insects crawling on his skin. But Liam had been dead for hundreds of years, poisoned by the water that was supposed to save his life, died in Killian’s arms in the captain’s quarters and gone overboard in a shroud. His death was as authoritative as anyone’s could get. So no, it wasn’t Liam. No, he hadn’t actually been there. But it _was_ a dangerous and delicate piece of illusion that had splendidly served its purpose at totally unnerving him, and Killian damn well recognized a thrown gauntlet when he saw one. Someone was playing with his mind, known and purposefully gone for his weakest point, and that someone was nobody to be trifled with. And in his current state of paranoia, he was having a great deal of trouble believing that Anastasia Castle had just so _happened_ to drop out of the sky and back into his life last night by accident, either.

In the bed beside him, Emma sighed and shifted, and Killian told himself once more and with feeling that he was being an idiot. The only woman who mattered in his life was right here in his arms – the only two, in fact. When she’d found out she was pregnant, Emma had impulsively offered, if the baby was a girl, to name it Milah, and according to the fine professionals of the NHS, it was indeed. Now, however, Killian couldn’t help but wonder if she would have cause to rue her generosity. Milah was dead, and hence safe, but even the most forbearing and tolerant of wives might not want the name of her husband’s lost love spoken aloud every day, keeping her memory fresh. Especially not after what had happened last night.

Killian didn’t blame Emma for her insecurity. In her position, he would have demanded the whole story as well, and he knew that she was still adjusting, slowly and painfully, to the idea that they were a team, that she didn’t have to be alone and cursed and struggling anymore. Besides, seeing Anastasia like that (and what the devil was she doing?) was a pointed threat, and one which Emma had clearly taken to heart. Worse, it _was_ in some degree Killian’s fault. He’d never slept with Anastasia, or even given her the impression that he was interested, but he _had_ turned to her for matters beyond the professional. He had met her in the two years he’d spent at Oxford, waiting for Emma to graduate from college and move away from Boston so she wouldn’t get caught in the crosshairs of his revenge (look how bloody well that had worked out) and Anastasia had promised she had a way to help him accomplish it. She’d revealed that she too knew about Storybrooke and the secrets it concealed, and if they wanted to band together and take it down, there’d be a fat slice of spoils for them both.  Him, the death of the crocodile, and her. . . whatever she wanted. He hadn’t troubled to find out, ultimately electing to go it alone as usual. Whoever and whatever Anastasia Castle really was, she was (like him) not merely an eccentric scholar. She was hiding something much darker and deeper.

 _I thought I’d never see her again._ Killian pressed his lips together grimly. For even his wretched former self to pass up an opportunity for revenge, his misgivings had to be considerable, and Anastasia had rubbed him the wrong way from the start. What was more, he couldn’t think of any safe way to confront her and demand what she’d been up to last night. And yet, if he didn’t –

“Killian?” Emma said drowsily, startling him. “You’re thinking so loudly I can hear you over here. What the hell is up now?”

He kissed her tangled, sleep-smelling hair. “Nothing, love. Probably wriggling like a bloody fish on a hook, aren’t I?”

He felt more than heard the low laugh that buzzed through her. “That’s what I admire the most about you, you know. A hook quip for every occasion.”

“I have to be good for something.” Killian wrapped his arm more firmly around her, cupping his hand on the warm swell of her stomach. “Go back to sleep, lass. It’s sheep-fuckingly early.”

Emma buzzed once more in amusement, but settled more comfortably into the pillows and was soon breathing deeply again. He lay there, torn in half. He wanted more than anything to blurt out the entire ugly truth just to have it done, but she wasn’t the only one struggling with crippling insecurity and old self-preservation habits. Besides, there was no need to ruin their idyllic weekend with this. She and David were going back to London on Sunday night, it would be the rest of the week until they saw him again, and not in Oxford; he’d come down there instead. If he staged this right, there would be plenty of time to smooth everything over.

Nonetheless, he couldn’t balm his restless thoughts. He rolled out of bed, careful not to disturb her. Shrugging on his dressing gown, he opened the door and emerged into the dim living room; it felt even earlier than it was due to the grey mantle of mist lapping against the windows. David was peacefully snoozing as well, almost buried beneath the heap of quilts on the sofa bed, and some of the perpetual clench in Killian’s heart eased. He had them both. It was well.

On a whim, he ducked into the kitchen. Normally he avoided it like the plague (though his historian’s mind had always wondered how, precisely, the plague could be avoided – wasn’t that the bloody point?) but he felt inspired. He flicked on the overhead light, and ransacked the refrigerator for the bits of actual food he’d collected at Sainsbury’s, correctly anticipating that Emma and David would not want to eat cold sandwiches all weekend. Soon he had the stove humming, managing awkwardly but well enough, as he fixed a regular English breakfast: bacon, sausages, eggs, toast, fried tomatoes, and tea. Then he scooped the lot onto a tray with only minor calamities, remembering how he’d made breakfast for Emma in the snowed-in cabin on Thanksgiving morning, when he’d asked her to marry him the first time. _And then that night David was taken._ No. He’d rather not do that again.

Speaking of his offspring, David had been awoken by the noise and the smell of food, and came pattering into the kitchen to investigate. “What are you making, Daddy?”

“Breakfast for your mum, lad,” Killian told him. “Want to give me a hand?”

David giggled; this joke was funny to him every time, bless his seven-year-old heart. “Okay. Can I have some cereal?”

“Aye, whatever you like. Then we’ll give Mum the afternoon off and go see our film, how’s that?”

“Wicked.” David carefully accepted the heavily laden breakfast tray with both hands, then proceeded as solemnly as the Archbishop of Canterbury into the bedroom, interrupted only by Killian having to get the door for him. “Mom, wake up! We made you breakfast!”

Killian raised a dark eyebrow, but gallantly decided to share the credit. Emma sat up, blinking, and smiled at them, and an enjoyable if rather messy meal was partaken of atop the covers. Once everyone was washed up and dressed, it was going on midmorning, and there were various minor tasks about the house to see to, until Killian checked the time and called to David. “We’re going to catch the noon showing, lad, grab your shoes.”

David promptly obeyed, and after exhorting Emma to enjoy her boy-free few hours, the two of them stepped out into what was now a wispy, clean-washed day. It was a short stroll to the city centre and the cinema on Magdalen Street, and they stepped inside to the ticket booth. After the experience of yesterday, Killian had attached his false hand for this outing, but he felt just as much a fool as he balanced his wallet awkwardly in it, fishing for a few crumpled pound notes and keenly aware of the teenage concierge’s puzzled stare. Bloody hell, he hated pity. “Two for the pirate film, please. Adult and child.”

“Pirates?” a voice said behind him. “Now that’s the one thing I’d think you’ve had enough of.”

Killian went cold from head to toe. He didn’t want to know what look was on his face. Didn’t want to say anything, be caught talking to his hallucinations in public; they all thought he was round the bend as it was. What was the name of that mathematician who’d been mad as a hatter and won the Nobel Prize? Killian himself appeared headed that way, though without the laurels. “Thank you,” he said to the clerk, took the tickets, and turned around.

Even knowing it was a delusion didn’t prepare him for the sight of Liam, leaning against the wall next to the posters for upcoming releases. He was casually dressed in jacket and jeans, not the captain’s uniform he’d died in all those centuries ago, dark curls artfully tousled and scarf draped around his neck. Just as he’d looked in his materialization at the office yesterday. “What’s this, little brother?” he asked with a grin. “Father-son outing?”

David glanced curiously at Killian. “Daddy, who’s that?”

 _Oh  bugger._ Killian felt true panic starting to well up in his chest, closing his throat, strangling his heart. “You. . . you see him?”

David gave him an extremely odd look. “Of course I can see him. He’s standing right there. Do you know him?”

“Hello, lad,” Liam said. “And what’s your name?”

“I’m David.” _Naturally,_ the little wretch liked to introduce himself to everyone he met. His friendliness with strangers was part of what, according to Emma, had gotten him into his previous predicament. “That’s my dad. He’s a little weird.”

Liam looked amused. “Oh, I know. It’s been a long time, but I always believed we’d see each other again. He doesn’t seem all that happy, though.”

“You’re not here,” Killian said through clenched teeth. He almost couldn’t stand it. “I don’t care how real you look, you’re not here. You’re not you.”

“Oh, I’m real.” Liam crouched to David’s level. “It’s nice to meet you, lad. I’m your uncle.”

“Uncle?” David blinked, then stared, then grinned. “Daddy! You never told me!”

“That’s because he’s not your uncle.” Killian grabbed his son by the collar; his hand had started to shake uncontrollably. If Neverland had somehow been unleashed in the real world. . . Liam had died because of it, drank that water that made you live as long as you were in Neverland. . . but Killian couldn’t begin to imagine the horrifying consequences. Everything else that had been created and sustained thanks to that dark magic was, quite simply, a monster. To the thing masquerading as his brother, he ordered, “Stay the bloody hell away from us.”

Liam looked hurt. “Killian,” he pleaded. “You don’t understand. It’s _me._ It’s been – how long? Years? – since we last saw each other, since I – ”

“Try centuries.” Killian pulled harder at David, almost jerking the boy off his feet. He felt on the very hair-trigger edge of control, and he was afraid of what he might do if he snapped. “You’re _dead,_ Liam. Dead! And you don’t come back, nobody comes back from that! Leave me! Leave me _alone!”_ Oh gods, he was almost crying. A man over three hundred years old, about to bloody break down in the middle of the cinema lobby. “Get out of here or I’ll make you!”

David gaped at him. “Daddy? Daddy! Are you all right? I think you’re going crazy.”

“I’m fine.” Killian whirled on the spot, marched to the baffled usher, and shoved the tickets at him. Then he all but dove into the theatre, grateful for the darkness and the distraction and anything else to keep David from asking what had just happened. As for the film itself, doubtless it was enjoyable, but he had no idea; he sat with his eyes closed the entire time, unable to tolerate even this stylized dramatic fiction. They knew nothing, they knew bloody _nothing,_ and the sound of cannons and swordfighting and breaking masts and sinking ships was flashing him back so intensely that he almost couldn’t breathe. In his first days as Captain Jones, maddened with grief, cut free of every belief or value he’d ever held, he’d done things nearly to rival the later excesses of Hook. He’d blocked out most of those memories for his own self-preservation, but seeing Liam and now this had brought them so close to the surface that a single slash would bleed them out. He felt terrible, sick and shaking, by the time the credits rolled.

As they emerged into the early afternoon, David obliviously chattering away, Killian’s head swiveled in every direction, searching for the visitation. It wasn’t there, but this was no comfort. He’d suddenly had a terrible thought. The thing pretending to be his brother obviously knew where his office was, having ambushed him there yesterday, and all his case notes, his research on magic and curses and that dark blood ritual from Crane’s manuscript, his carefully annotated files on Neverland and Storybrooke, were stored there. And if not Liam, then. . .

“This way, lad,” Killian said tersely, grabbing his son by the arm. He picked up his pace, nearly dragging the extremely confused David, as he jostled through the crowds of pedestrians and shoppers on Broad Street, up to Parks Road and left the few steps to Wadham. He jogged through, out around the quad walk to Holywell Court and the steps up to his office. He took them two or three at a time, almost vaulting to the landing, and down the corridor.

He knew something was wrong before he even reached the door. The latch was slightly ajar, when he knew for a damned fact he’d left it locked, and he jerked it open, eyes flashing at once to the file cabinet. Crossed the floor in two steps, and twisted the key.

Oh, hell. Bloody, bloody _hell._

Killian had expected it, _known_ it, and yet, there was no way to prepare himself for the sight of the ransacked mess inside. Entire dossiers missing, others with fistfuls of pages ripped out, some of his rarest and most hard-to-get books either defaced or outright pilfered, a solid decade of academic work gone. He’d started those back at Trinity, and while some of them were saved on his hard drive, that did him a fat fucking lot of good when his computer was missing as well. He felt violated, foully and personally taken advantage of, and savagely cursed himself, the perpetrator, and the whole bloody business, not entirely under his breath.

“Daddy?” David was hovering on the threshold, staring at the destruction with an aghast look on his face. “Daddy, you’re scaring me.”

Killian inhaled a slow breath. Christ, he’d almost forgotten about the lad. “Sorry,” he said, with a smile that felt painfully brittle and false. “But somebody’s burgled the place, and I’m going to have to get this sorted. Stay here and don’t touch anything, I’ll be right back.”

With that, Killian barreled out, down the stairs again, and back to the front quad, not stopping until he reached the porter’s lodge. The head porter, an amiable Glaswegian named Malcolm, was buried behind a copy of yesterday’s _Daily Mail,_ but he started to attention at the crash of the door against the jamb. “Dr. Jones! Surprised to see ye about on a Saturday – I thought your family was up from London?”

Killian was in no mood for pleasantries. “Phone the police. My office’s been robbed.”

Malcolm’s jaw dropped. “What? Never!”

“It’s not a dream, if you were wondering. Now.”

Still clearly unable to comprehend how such a sacrilege could have occurred within his lovingly stewarded domains, Malcolm nonetheless did so, and in a few minutes, the Thames Valley Police pulled up outside, a detective and a sergeant following Killian up to the scene of the crime. He ran them through the situation, the stolen items, and the fact that it had to have happened some  time between 6pm last night and 2pm today. It ran into trouble, however, when they asked if he had any idea as to a possible suspect. He did – had several ideas, in fact – but how did he say so without sounding like a total sodding lunatic? Bad enough if, by some miracle, they recovered the material and some nosy bastard in the department decided to read all about curses. He’d tell them it was for a novel or something, but then –

The detective was still looking at him expectantly, pen poised above notepad. “Dr. Jones?”

Damnation.

Resisting the urge to add further picturesque epithets, Killian bit the bullet. “Several possibilities. First, you may want to look into one Anastasia Castle. She teaches literature here, or used to. We were. . . business associates, several years ago, and she likely still has an interest in the sort of stuff that was taken. It would have been easy for her to get in here without arousing suspicion, but. . .” He hesitated. “It doesn’t seem her style. Too messy.”

The detective scribbled accordingly. “You had another idea?”

“Aye.” Hellfire, there was no way around this. Killian stared at the ceiling, the floor, the desk, anywhere but their faces. “It may have been a man using the name Liam Jones.”

He sensed the start. “Relative of yours?”

“Not exactly. It’s. . . bloody complicated. Liam is – was – my brother, but he died a very long time ago. Someone’s appeared claiming to be him, and I’m not sure why. I saw him last night here and then again today, at the Odeon Cinema on Magdalen Street a few minutes before noon. He could have come over directly afterward and cased the place, or he could have already done it. I’ll warn you, though. Whoever this individual is, he’s bloody dangerous.”

“We can handle that, Dr. Jones,” the amateur assured him gravely. “If it is him, do you have any speculation as for a motive?”

 _He’s a creation of the darkest magic you or anyone have ever known, sent to warn me that things are about to get much worse? A ghost of Neverland, a servant of Pan?  A demonic shadow of the beloved brother whose loss turned me into a pirate in the first place?_ “No idea.”

More dutiful scribbling. “Physical description?”

Killian provided it, fighting the ever-growing urge to stick his head out the window and scream. He hadn’t had to talk about Liam this much in several lifetimes, hadn’t had to face it, had spent so long running from it. He wasn't sure he could handle a third appearance, and for that reason, had absolutely no doubt that it was coming. _What’s he going to do, chase me down at the flat, or just wait until he’s certain he has me alone, that I’ll ask him what in damnation he wants, if he’ll just go and leave me in peace?_ He preferred to think that that was what he would do. He had to. The alternative – that he’d fall into the trap of believing Liam was actually real, that he’d do anything, _anything,_ for it to be so – was too horrifying to imagine.

Finished with their questioning of him, the police prowled about, dusted for fingerprints, appropriated the broken latch and a few other items as evidence, photographed the office, and assured both Killian and the head tutor, who had been summoned by this point, that they’d be stepping up their patrols around the area and doing their best to ensure no further risk to Wadham staff, faculty, and students. But as they’d taken their last statements and were preparing to depart, the sergeant glanced back at Killian. “Dr. Jones?”

“Aye?”

“Pardon if I’m mistaken, but I get the distinct impression that this is. . . personal. And I just wanted to warn you not to get involved in it. Let the bureau do our work. We’ll catch whoever’s responsible, I promise. But if you’re trying to do the same, it will. . .” The officer hesitated. “Complicate matters. And with all due respect, I don’t think you’re capable of – ”

That was one provocation too many. “Mate,” Killian growled. “I appreciate the sentiment. But with all _due respect,_ you have _no idea_ what I’m bloody capable of.”

Both of the policemen gave him odd, lingering looks, but forbore to comment on what, he knew immediately, was never the right thing to say to authorities who had just instructed you to butt out if you knew what was good for you. Instead, they nodded smartly and departed, leaving Killian to the assurances of the head tutor that they would find him a new office while this was being investigated. He brushed her off, still too livid to trust himself to say a civil word, and collected his son, who had been hiding in the corner. “David. We’re leaving.”

David crept after him, out into the quad and thence to the street, where it was several moments before either of them said a thing. Notably, Killian. “So, lad. What would it run me to get you not to mention this to your mother?”

David blinked at him, confused. “What?”

“Your mother,” Killian repeated. “Until I get a few things sorted, I’d prefer not to worry her with this. So, if perhaps. . .”

“Are you asking me to lie to her?” David’s small brow furrowed. “I don’t think I want to do that. And I don’t think you should either. She doesn’t like it when you keep things from her.”

“I’m not lying to her!” By the defensiveness in his tone, Killian was well aware that the boy had struck too close to home. Still more, he knew that David was right. But he didn’t want to, _gods_ he didn’t want to. Was clinging to the faint, delusional hope that if he didn’t speak it, didn’t shape it, didn’t make it real, it would fold up tidily and go away, instead of continuing to uncurl its dark tendrils into the happy family life he and Emma had both struggled so hard to build. He’d told her everything, just last night, including several things he’d prefer not to. How could the lad accuse him of. . . of. . .

 _Bloody hell._ He clenched his fist. He was doing it again. Choosing what was easy instead of what was right, and of all his old pirate habits, that was the hardest to shake. _Look out for yourself and you’ll never get hurt, eh, Jones?_ But he couldn’t do that, he couldn’t. If Emma found out later, some other way, she’d be furious, and he’d not blame her. And if Neverland’s dark magic was reawoken, she’d be in just as much danger. Lying was no safety.

“Daddy?”

Killian glanced down, having once more nearly forgotten about David. “Aye?”

“Why did that man say he was my uncle? The one who scared you so much?”

An instinctive, prideful denial sprang to Killian’s lips – to say that he wasn’t scared, that he could manage it fine, thanks – but yet again, there was no point in anything less than brutal honesty. The lad had eyes, had seen him nearly come to pieces. “It’s a long story.”

“That’s what adults say when they just don’t want to explain.”

Caught off guard, Killian laughed. “You’re sharp, lad. Aye, well. Short version. Many years ago, I had a brother named Liam, whom I loved very much, and we had adventures together. But he died, and I went. . . wrong. I know it can’t really be him now, and it. . . it frightens me.”

“Because of Neverland.” David looked at him seriously. “Isn’t it?”

“How in the devil did you know that?” Killian’s pulse sped up.

“Because that’s the only thing with the power to do that, isn’t it?” David sounded quite practical, referring to the place he was kidnapped, been (however briefly) a Lost Boy in Henry’s band, stolen by mermaids, saved by a kiss. “I get in trouble when I talk about it, and Mom doesn’t like to remember it, but I know what happened there. That’s what you’re really afraid of.”

 _He knows. He knows exactly._ In a moment of sudden clarity, Killian wondered if his and Emma’s persistent habit of brutally compartmentalizing their emotions, only talking about them when they damned well had to, might have done more damage to their son than they knew. David was such a cheerful, resilient, optimistic child that they’d both counted their blessings that he was able to bounce back and no harm done, but Killian wondered now if the boy had inherited their closed doors, their high walls, their propensity to shove aside and not speak of it. Since he’d not mentioned any ill effects from his time in Neverland, nightmares or otherwise, they’d been happy to accept that there were none. _We should have known ourselves better._ It gnawed at Killian, that lingering sense of failure. “Aye,” he admitted. “It is.”

“Oh.” David considered. “But Neverland doesn’t exist in this world. Does it?”

“I.” Killian felt that strange sad ache that he supposed every parent must face, the day they had to tell their child about evil and darkness and pain. “I don’t know any more.”

“So why is the man who isn’t really my uncle here?”

“I don’t know. Just.. . . be careful, all right? Whatever this power is, it’s nothing to lark around with. Your mother and I couldn’t endure it if we lost you again.”

“Okay.” David nodded. “I’ll be careful.”

Killian loved him then, loved him more than he’d let himself in a long time, from the moment he’d discovered he had a son and Emma had been so wary about introducing them, fearful that he would vanish off the face of the earth again. He wanted to reach down and swoop David into his arms, hold him close and promise that nothing would ever hurt him, but contented himself with a gruff pat on the boy’s shoulder. “You’re a good lad. I’m sorry I’m a bloody lunatic.”

They turned onto Walton Street, and in a further few minutes  were arriving home to the smell of supper cooking and an extremely agitated Emma. “What the hell? Where have you been? Couldn’t call me or text me or something? Your movie ended over three hours ago!”

Killian frowned. Much as his affianced might struggle with her abandonment issues, she wasn’t normally this clingy, would have assumed they’d gone to grab a bite to eat or otherwise entertained themselves, and would have phoned herself if she was genuinely concerned for their whereabouts. It made an alarm sound in the back of his head, especially to look at her. She resembled a lioness, blonde curls tousled and green eyes burning, face bloodless except for the high spots of hectic color in her cheeks, enough to make him frown and move forward with a convulsive idea of checking her temperature. “Emma, lass. . . you look feverish, are you. . .”

“I’m fine,” she snapped, turning her back on him and storming into the kitchen. “Dinner will be ready in half an hour, I hope you didn’t go somewhere else and not bother to tell me.”

“Emma.” He went after her, accepting the full and present risk of disembowelment, and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her against him, his lips resting on the nape of her neck. “God’s sake, love, a porcupine would complain of you being too prickly. What’s wrong?”

She shuddered, but he could feel the tension leak out of her, and she yielded to his embrace. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I called my parents today, and. . . apparently Regina tried to escape last night, and almost succeeded. There was a giant mess, the entire town of Storybrooke went nuts, and they’re still trying to figure out what happened. They think she might have some kind of new power, or that her magic is coming back, or that something else in general is happening to make her think she’d be confident at getting out. The people are keeping her barricaded in her house, after they took all the possible weapons out of it, and. . .”

“She’s the Evil Queen, lass. They’ll never have found all the possible tricks she has up her sleeve.” Killian’s stomach clenched uncomfortably at the news. One incident was unfortunate, two less so, and a third could definitely not be filed away as chance. No other conclusion could be drawn but that Regina had felt the dark magic as well, and it had empowered her. “Still, though. That alone wouldn’t make you so vexed. What?”

Emma shot an oblique sidelong glance at David, who had already gathered that his parents were having one of those important conversations that did not involve him, and thus was doing his best to look studiously absorbed in something else. Then she said, “That would be the part where they asked if I’d think about changing my name back to Emma Nolan.”

“What? We’re going to be married in a few  months, I thought. . .” In fact he hadn’t broached the topic at all, supposing that a woman as independent and untraditional as Emma might well want to keep her maiden name. They’d filed papers to officially alter David’s surname to _Swan-Jones,_ but asking or requiring her to do the same had never crossed his mind. He wanted it, but. . . “Timing seems a bit odd, that’s all.”

“Exactly.” Emma’s nostrils flared. She had changed her name from Nolan to Swan after she lost her memories, and never changed it back. “As guilt trips go, that one was running the travel agency. They barely got to know you at all while they were cursed, and now they remember. . . it turns out you’re Captain Hook and the first thing you do is whisk me away to the other side of the Atlantic and get me involved in some other nefarious activity.” She looked as if she couldn’t quite decide whether to laugh. “Fine, I’ll be blunt. They’re not happy.”

“I’m not Hook,” Killian snapped. Too fast, too defensively. “Not anymore.”

“That’s beside the point.” Emma pulled loose of his arms and briskly stirred whatever was bubbling on the stove.

“So what do they want you to do? Come back home to Storybrooke, live with them as the vulnerable young woman they left unconscious in a Boston hospital?” If he was being honest, Killian could not blame Charming and Snow too stringently for that – he after all had done the same thing, and they had been under considerable duress from the crocodile at the time – but he was prickly and barbed and baited and tired of being seen as the incurable villain. “That’s not going to work!”

“They didn’t say so in as many words, but yes.” Emma’s fingers tightened on the handle of the saucepan. “I get the feeling that that’s exactly what they want.”

“Well, too bloody bad for them. They can’t dote and spoil and coddle the little girl they wish you still were to make up for the time they lost.” Yet again, Killian was uncomfortably aware that he himself was doing more or less the same thing with David, but at least David _was_ only seven, still a child and a forgiving one at that. There was time to repair the damage. This was different. “They have to learn to be your parents as adults. For you, and for them.”

“I know, all right?” Emma kept stirring. “They mean well, it’s not like they’re going to fly over here to kidnap me in the dead of night. They can’t, remember? They can’t leave Storybrooke, so all they can really try to do is change my mind about it.”

Killian’s stomach did another unpleasant flip. “About. . . us, lass? Me and you, our family?”

Emma’s silence felt ominous. He took another step. “Is that what they meant?” he repeated, feeling a sickening, whistling sensation as if he was free-falling in an elevator. His voice had dropped lower, verging on a growl. “Your parents, the bloody embodiment of True Love, can’t stand their daughter finding anyone besides them?”

“I already told you that’s not what they meant!” Emma’s hand jerked, splashing béchamel sauce onto her apron. “They’re not going to break us apart, if that’s what you’re afraid of. But they don’t know you and they’re not sure they like you and they want me to come home. The end.”

“I saved you in Neverland! You and David! What else do they want to prove I won’t – ”

“No,” Emma burst out. Her face was turning red, and not merely from the heat of the kitchen. “You didn’t save David. _I_ saved him. It was _because_ of you that he was drowned in the first place, because you couldn’t keep your goddamn deal with the mermaids! If you had just – ”

“If I had _just_ , lass, they would have skinned me blind, and likely got me into worse debt, and – ”

“You should have paid it,” Emma breathed. “Sucked it up and paid it. Not – ”

“I was a pirate, lass. I _am_ a pirate. Much as it may shock your sainted parents. So forgive me if I wanted to get back to you at any cost, if I didn’t know that I – ”

Their voices were rising, their tempers as well, and it was Emma who was the first to turn away. “God,” she said to the wall. “What’s _wrong_ with us? It’s like we’re not even ourselves. I’m so on edge and I’m so out of control and I’m so _angry_ , all the time. I don’t know why.”

 _Neverland,_ Killian thought again. Unless that was just what he wanted it to be, a convenient excuse for the darkness pervading them. He’d asked her to marry him two days after their reunion, after a separation of almost seven years. No, it wasn’t too early; he’d never love another woman the way he loved her, not even if he should live another three centuries. But the fact remained that there were massive issues still to be worked out, which they hadn’t had time to touch in the drama and terror of David being kidnapped by the Home Office and thrown down the portal to Neverland. And then the Storybrooke situation after that. Not much opportunity to sit down for cozy heart-to-hearts. He was afraid of what these cracks were revealing, how deep they ran. _The battle is only beginning._

“I don’t know, lass,” he said wearily. “I’m just as guilty as you. I love you, and I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.” She put down the spoon she’d been hereto brandishing as a lethal instrument, and came quickly into his arms, her head snuggling under his chin, as he kissed her hair. “Let’s try not to fight anymore, all right? This isn’t the way I wanted to spend the weekend.”

“Me neither,” he admitted, pulling her tighter against him. “Fortunately, term goes fast. Only five more weeks. I’ll be back in London full-time before you know it.”

“Then we can fight more conveniently.” But she buzzed with wry laughter, and he had to join in, rocking her, until she heaved a ragged breath and let go. “Why _were_ you late, by the way?”

Killian hesitated. “Went to check something at my office.”

“Get distracted with work again?” Emma asked, expertly nabbing the timer as it began to beep and whipping the pan off the stove. “David! Come set the table, please!”

David poked his head cautiously into the kitchen, clearly trying to ensure that no more parental blowups were in the offing, before he enlisted his father’s help in fetching down the plates and glasses. This gave Killian an excuse not to answer immediately. But then supper was ready, and smelled delicious, and Emma was smiling at him, and he couldn’t face the ordeal of explaining it to her now, when all he wanted to do was take her to bed and make it up to her in the darkness, in the soft wordless language of intimacy, of kisses and touches and warmth and sex and love, of having her in his arms again, a joy he would never take for granted, and so he did not.


	4. Chapter 4

The rest of the weekend passed more or less uneventfully. Killian and Emma slept late on Sunday morning, roused only by David barging in at 10:35 am to find out why on earth they were still in bed when he was hungry, and the family enjoyed a late and leisurely brunch together, interrupted only when Killian's mobile rang and he escaped into the next room to take the call. It was the police, informing him that after questioning the relevant personnel, they'd ruled out Anastasia Castle as a suspect – she had an ironclad alibi, had been in Cambridge all day yesterday, and numerous people would vouch for seeing her there. Furthermore, nobody remembered a man corresponding to the description of Liam, particularly Malcolm, who was adamant that he'd recognized or checked everyone who came through the main entrance. As you couldn't get through the Holywell Street gate without a Bod card, which presumably Liam lacked, they were now looking into reports of any cards lost or stolen. They'd be in touch with further news. Quite pointedly, they thanked him for his patience and hung up.

"Bloody brilliant," Killian muttered sarcastically, shoving the phone back into his pocket. He especially disliked tipping Anastasia off about the burglary, and had a nagging feeling that somebody was overlooking something very obvious, that the story related to him was incorrect and dangerously so. But he needed Emma and David safely packed to London before he could break the rules and investigate on his own, and took a deep breath and made sure his face was neutral before returning to the table. Fortunately, neither of them seemed to notice anything.

After brunch, they got showered and dressed and went for a long walk in Port Meadow, which afforded plenty of opportunities for David to work off the massive sugar charge he'd accumulated from all the syrup on his pancakes. Killian and Emma strolled hand in hand, a few paces behind. "So," she said abruptly. "I was thinking."

"And?" He wasn't sure if this was a precursor to something very good or very bad.

"We _are_ going back to Storybrooke for Christmas, remember? And I know it sounds farfetched, but not any more than the rest of what our lives have turned into." She emitted a small, wryly amused snort. "I swear, it doesn't matter to me, but I know it does to you, and since that's the case, I want it. We'll find a way to get your hand back, Killian."

"Really?" He was afraid to hope. "You think we can find a way, lass?"

"We've found a way for all kinds of stuff, remember?" She squeezed hard. "Maybe that's part of the solution for. . . whatever's wrong with us. If you can get your hand back, it'll make you feel less useless, my parents can't really call you Hook anymore, and it'll. . . it'll show Pan that he didn't win." She sounded uncertain, almost shy; Pan was their enemy, but he was also her son, Henry. Yet he didn't exist any more – didn't he? Something else Killian made a mental note to look into. If Pan _was_ alive, if he was here, the game suddenly became a thousand times more high-stakes and terrifying. "And it'll show that we really will do anything, if we have to. That – "

Whatever else Emma had been going to say was cut off as Killian whirled her around and pulled her into a long kiss, under the bare trees along the canal path. She kissed him back just as hard, cradling his face in both of her good hands, their mouths opening as they breathed each other, his fingers tangling through her loosened blonde curls. "I love you," he whispered roughly, sure that he could never say it too often or too well. "I love you, Emma."

"I know." She pulled back, kissed his nose, and smiled crookedly at him, and he knew she was apologizing for her short-tempered snappishness, for anything she might have said to hurt him. "We'll work this out, Killian. I know we both suck at it, but we have to learn eventually, right?"

"I should hope so, lass." Hideously and unworthily relieved, he took her hand again, and they resumed their progress. "I'll try to come down to London in the middle of the week if I find the time, but there's a bloody lot to do. I likely won't be free until Friday."

"It's all right," Emma said swiftly. "That's what we were planning on."

"Aye." He smiled, fighting a brief and completely illogical sensation of bafflement and disappointment, as he checked to see how far ahead of them David had ranged. He still hadn't gotten out of the habit of glancing around nervously for the thing pretending to be Liam, but whatever it was, it was cleverer than to show its face directly after having robbed his office. Likely it had gone to earth somewhere with its loot, awaiting instructions from its puppetmaster. Aye, there was a great deal to do this week indeed.

After the conclusion of their stroll, and an afternoon tea at Queen's Lane, Emma and David collected their things and were escorted by Killian to the train station, where they'd catch the 18:05 to Paddington. He embraced both of them longer than usual, struggling with the idea of letting them go even for five days, and found himself fiercely wishing that he could hop aboard with them and go home, rather than facing the brewing storm in Oxford alone. But he was, he was going to get this sorted before it could hurt his family any further, and that was that.

"See you soon," Emma muttered, arms still around his neck. She seemed to be having the same problem. "Okay? Call me or something. It feels like a long week without you."

"Aye." He kissed her hair. "I miss you already."

"Don't say that." Emma stepped back, shouldered her bag, and grabbed David, contriving somehow to leave a hand free to insert their tickets into the barrier. They stepped through the glass doors out onto the platform, and Killian remained inside the station, watching, until the First Great Western service pulled in and his fiancée and son disappeared onto the carriage. He felt oddly and nakedly bereft. As if he wasn't going to see them again. Had to fight the urge to break through and run. _Wait for me._

"Don't be an idiot, Jones," he mumbled to himself, as the doors rolled closed, the whistle sounded, and the train began to move. "Far too much of that going around these days."

Nonetheless, it was something like physical pain as he turned and walked out of the station alone, into the chilly autumn night. He had started to seriously question if he should be going about unarmed, especially after dark, but hadn't found a convenient interlude to slip a dagger, pistol, or similar item into his briefcase – something which he made a note to do when he got home. It would be odd; his chief weapon for centuries had been his hook. _We'll find a way to get your hand back,_ Emma had promised. But how soon? How?

Killian's troubled thoughts kept him unwelcome company the rest of the way back to the flat. He glanced both ways, unlocked the door after inspecting it closely for any signs of interference, and then stepped inside, without any enthusiasm to heat up leftovers. Perhaps some work, a good deal of which remained to be done before 9 AM tomorrow, and which he'd quite put off in the excitement of everything else. He took one step across the living room, toward his desk.

A step was as far as he got. That was when he saw the ruby-inlaid knife hafted nearly hilt-deep in the wall, shedding plaster, a knife which beyond all doubt had not been there earlier this morning. It pinned exactly what, as he crossed the room and jerked it down, he really should have bloody been expecting.

A ransom note.

* * *

It was late, dark, and cold by the time Emma was navigating Paddington with a sleepy David in tow, heading out to the cab rank, and watching the city lights glide past the window as they drove through downtown. She was unhappy and unsettled, and guilty that she was, a sensation she tried to eradicate by telling herself firmly that the weekend had gone exactly to plan. Which was even potentially true, depending on what the plan was. She'd _meant_ to tell Killian about Henry, but she'd never found something that felt like the right time, and as usual, she was second-guessing herself and her instincts, her certainty that she'd even been visited by anything more than a dream. Seeing that man outside the house, though. . . no, that hadn't been anything, he'd kept walking. If there _was_ anything to handle on this end, she'd take care of it, preferably before Killian came down on Friday. That was the only way she could trust that it would be: bust it, dust it, and make sure that it wasn't –

"Ma'am? Ma'am! This was it, no?"

"Yeah. Sorry." Emma shook her head, stepped out onto the sidewalk, and handed the driver a few extra quid for helping with the bags, absurdly tempted to ask him if he'd ever had that Peter Pan in the back of his cab once. Then she headed up the steps, unlocked the front door, and fixed David a snack, before herding him upstairs to brush his teeth and tuck him into bed. The house appeared quiet and tranquil, soothing her frazzled nerves to some degree, and she took out her phone to thumb a quick text to Killian. Then she tossed it on the coffee table and started back toward the kitchen herself. Something to eat as well didn't sound like a bad –

"Hello, Emma."

For a split second, all she could see was white, fear and adrenaline burning through her like a party drug, and she barely kept herself from smashing a hole in the wall. Then she spun around, just in time to see him emerging insouciantly from the dark hallway. His footsteps barely made a sound on the carpet. "It's good to see you again."

"You." Emma pressed a hand to her chest. "What the _hell_ are you doing here."

"Waiting for you to come back." Henry shrugged. "I didn't have anywhere else to go. It's a nice house. I didn't think you'd begrudge it to me."

Emma still couldn't think what else to say. At their last meeting in Neverland, right before he'd stabbed her, he'd disavowed all knowledge of a mother, of her – then shouted at her that she didn't _have_ to leave him, she didn't _have_ to grow up, making her wonder if he'd been lying all along. But why? He had wanted her and David with him. . . was it just the family he craved, the existence, _what?_ How was he even here? Was he still in her head? Was she the only one who could see him? He'd waited until David had gone to bed, but –

"All right," she said evenly. "What do you want?"

"You opened the window, Emma." He was standing next to the lamp, but he wasn't casting any shadow on the wall. "As long as you believe in me, I exist. And you need to do that. When you changed Neverland's magic, when you kissed David and brought him back to life, you changed me. I can't live there anymore, the way it is. So I came back here to find you."

"And. . . and do what?" Reflexively, her fingers groped for a weapon. She wasn't going to hurt him, didn't _want_ to hurt him, but didn't know if he'd extend the same courtesy for her.

"Make you change it back." Henry's eyes burned into her. "I'm Pan. I need Neverland. _My_ Neverland. You broke the boundary. Its magic is leaking into this world now, and before long, it will be entirely gone. When that happens, I _will_ die."

"I thought you couldn't as long as I believed in you." Emma's voice was weak.

Henry shook his head. "Only as long as the magic lasts. You broke it. You need to put it back together. You're the only one who can."

"You said you were coming here for me – me and Neal, and – "

"I am," Henry said matter-of-factly. "He used to be a Lost Boy. He belongs to me. And I want you with him. He's my father. You're my mother. You can make me real."

"I. . . I'm not getting back with Neal. I made that clear the last time I saw him. I've moved on, I have a family with Killian now."

She didn't like Henry's smile. "Do you?"

"Yes, actually. I do." Something wasn't matching up in Emma's head. "And you're telling me two different things. First, you want me to put Neverland back the way it was – which I don't have a damn clue how to do – because you need to return there and live like you used to. But now you want me and Neal together to make you real in _this_ world? How does that even _work?"_

"It's a mystery." Henry grinned again. She hadn't seen him move, but suddenly he was closer to her, much closer, and she noticed as well that he didn't give off any heat, the way a living boy would. Her skin was crawling with a visceral revulsion, and she fought the urge to retreat, to give more ground. "You have no idea what you're capable of, Emma. You have no idea who you are. And you don't want me to die. You don't want that on your conscience. You'll do what I tell you."

"Will I?" She forced herself to meet his gaze. "Whatever you are, you're _not_ really my son. You're some kind of manifestation of Neverland, trying to save itself. Henry. . . Henry never actually existed. And Neverland was a hellhole that nearly killed a lot of people I love. I'm not all that interested in saving it. Thanks. But no thanks."

"Oh?" The clock leapt off the wall and smashed itself. It was followed by the lightbulb in the lamp spitting and fizzing, going in and out. For a split second, she caught a glimpse of an entirely different face swimming beneath Henry's features, completely unfamiliar. Angular cheekbones, a pointed chin, sandy-brown hair, sharply expressive eyebrows, as faint and faraway as if she was seeing it through a glass darkly, or a gauzy veil. Then she blinked, and it was gone. "You're making me angry, Emma. You shouldn't make me angry."

"Get out." Emma's fingers closed around the nearest item to hand: a book belonging to Killian, an abstruse academic doorstopper and good five hundred pages of potential pain. She brought it up in front of her face like a shield, heart hammering. "Get out of here."

"You can't make me." He grinned, licking his lips. "You can't. You don't know anything about this. Pan never fails. Pan always gets what he wants. _Always."_

And with that, with no further sound or motion, he was gone, even though he'd been standing right in front of her an instant before. Yet there was a lingering coldness in the air, nearly tangible enough to touch, a dark oily stain that made her back away as if from a gaping abyss. Her knees were not working properly, and she sat down heavily on the couch, groping for her phone. God _damn_ , she'd been such an idiot to think this was something she could handle by herself. Had to get out of the habit, had to quit living like a lost girl. She was playing right into his hands. Had no idea how much damage she'd already done.

Emma's fingers were so numb that she could barely dial, but she did. She waited tensely, listening to it ring, but Killian didn't answer. Instead it clicked over to his voicemail, and she expelled another unsteady breath. "Hey. It's me. Call me when you get this message, all right? I don't care what time it is. Just. . . call me, all right? It's important. All right. Bye."

A few more seconds of dead air elapsed before she remembered she had to hang up, which she did. She had been going to have a snack, but she wasn't hungry anymore. She got up and went upstairs, startling every time she caught sight of anything out of the corner of her eye, to the dark master bedroom. She undressed and crawled beneath the covers, cold and lonely after two nights spent warm and intimately in Killian's arms, flush with sex and sleep. Couldn't get comfortable. Kept picking her phone off the side table, waiting for his call to come in. He'd be up late, as she knew he hadn't done most of the work he had left for tomorrow, and if he got in a groove he might forget to check his messages, but. . . unless it had run out of battery and. . .

Finally, around two in the morning, she still hadn't gotten to sleep and didn't think she was anywhere close, had been tossing and turning fretfully for what felt like eternity. She sat up in bed and called again. Yet again, he didn't pick up.

 _Tomorrow,_ she tried to tell herself. _He'll call back tomorrow._ He was probably in bed already and had just missed it. But after what Pan had said about how she wasn't going to have a family with Killian anymore, after his open threats about how she shouldn't make him angry, she couldn't feel comfortable just marking it off as coincidence. She hesitated, fighting the absurd urge to get dressed and run out and catch the next coach service back to Oxford – but no, she wasn't leaving David alone in the house with that demon (oh God, was he still here?) _Pull yourself together. Pull yourself together._

Slowly, Emma lay back down. All she could think was that as soon as the morning came, as soon as it was a minimally decent hour for visiting, there was only one place she could hope to find information.

She needed to pay a visit to the Darlings.

* * *

After a few hours of shallow, intermittent dozing, Emma crawled out of bed a little past dawn, got dressed, and staggered downstairs. Her eyes were gritty and gluey, and she felt like the Thing from the Black Lagoon compared to David, who was his usual chipper, obnoxiously morning-person self. Clearly, he had had a perfectly restful night, completely uninterrupted by demons assuming the shape of his half-brother, or anything else for that matter. She walked him out to the bus stop, made sure he had his Oyster card, and as they were waiting, said, "If I'm not home when you get back, just let yourself in, all right? I have a. . . project."

"Okay." David was well used to this routine from their Boston days; back then, he'd pretty much existed as a full-time latchkey kid, when she was working outrageous hours as a bail bondsperson. Not that she did the domestic goddess routine now, but at least she was generally around when he got home from school. "Bye, Mom."

With that, he trotted aboard the bus as it pulled up – England didn't have designated school buses like the States, he just took the regular city service – and she watched it go. Had to shake her sudden fear that she was making a terrible mistake. It was ten minutes to school from here, if that, and he beetled around London with the aplomb of a longtime resident, so at ease on the Underground that she'd had to order him not to go exploring without her. Considering his parentage, his wanderlust and fearless sense of adventure was inevitable, and she was not going to be a helicopter mom. Not in the cards.

Still, she couldn't quite settle her nerves. It was as if something was working on her, corroding her, keeping her as unbalanced as if she was about to fly or fall. David would be fine. He rode the bus alone, both ways, every day. But considering that Killian still hadn't called her back yet, plus the events of last night, she wished she could feel confident, for one goddamn second, that the people she loved weren't about to be violently and completely torn from her. Breaking the curse was supposed to end that fear. Instead, it had only made it worse.

After a moment, Emma went back inside the house, finished her breakfast, and eyed the clock impatiently; she'd always heard that you weren't supposed to call or visit pre-9 AM or post-9PM. When it was finally enough past the former to satisfy etiquette, she brushed her hair, put on some makeup and her nice red woolen jacket so she didn't resemble a total hobo, then set out.

It was a grey and grim morning, unable to decide how much inconvenience it wanted to cause with either rain or sleet, and it matched well with Emma's mood as she trundled down the sidewalk, ignoring the various odd looks from the well-heeled individuals ferried past in luxury cars. Kensington was by far the most affluent place she'd ever lived, and clearly it was something of a rarity to see her splashing along on foot, under a £5.99 pocket umbrella from Boots. Whatever. She didn't care if she was serving as a curio to the aristocracy. She had shit to do.

She cut across Kensington Gardens, doing her best to ignore the Peter Pan statue. The Pan she knew wasn't some cherubic little ragamuffin playing a pipe, and it gave her one of her numerous opportunities to wonder how the authors of the original fairytales had gotten their inspiration. Had they created these myths, or only recorded them? How did you get appointed as an official Keeper of the Canon, anyway? Did some pixie show up, sprinkle magic dust on you while you were asleep, and then you woke up thinking it was your idea and your place as a literary genius was assured? She was well aware of the fact that she was engaged to a man who was a legendary villain, that her parents were fucking Disney lovebirds, that she inhabited some strange space between this world and another, that magic was real, and somehow, this had all gotten lost in translation. Sometimes she wondered if it was the key to unraveling the secret of Storybrooke's existence, and its continued curse. If you could find out who had written the books and the tales, let this world know about the stories, only to think they weren't even real.

Darting through the dripping, ashy trees, she skirted the palace grounds, crossed the street, and turned down the terrace where the Darlings lived. Even though the younger Wendy had been her roommate in college and was one of her oldest friends, Emma still felt awkward about approaching the family. Granny Wendy's will had given her and Killian the money to buy their house here, but Granny Wendy had died in Neverland, in large part because of the two of them bursting in and plucking her off her deathbed. She _had_ been one hundred and two, but Emma still felt the guilt. She couldn't imagine that Jane, Wendy's daughter and the new owner of the house, was going to be happy to see her.

Nonetheless, this was urgent. She stood on the sidewalk, rocking back and forth on her toes as if about to go off the high dive, then headed up the steps and rang the bell.

No answer, which was surprising. The curtains were drawn over the front windows, giving the house a queerly forbidding aspect, and Emma wondered if they were still in mourning for Granny Wendy. Breaking in was out of the question; if she pulled any of her old tricks here, it would land her in a very unpleasant chat with the Met. If they weren't in, she'd come back later. Give Wendy a call, or something.

Just as she was about to leave, however, the deadbolt rattled, and the door cracked. "Yes?" said the voice of the Darlings' butler. "May I help you, madam?"

It struck Emma that perhaps she wasn't the only one whom Pan had decided to afflict with the pleasure of his company. Awkwardly, she cleared her throat. "Um, yeah. Hi. I'm Emma Swan, a friend of the family. Is. . . is Jane home? Er, Mrs. James?"

"Miss Swan?" Clearly the butler recognized her, or at least the name. "One moment, please."

With that, the door shut smartly, and Emma was left to drip forlornly on the stoop until it opened again. The butler beckoned her inside, then locked it.

The Darlings' mansion was just as she remembered. Slightly fusty, starched and quiet, with the air of a museum or Victorian antiquity shop, crammed with furniture upholstered in brocade and damask, striped wallpaper, crocheted antimacassars shrouding claw-footed chairs, a Persian rug, stained-glass lamps on varnished old endtables, and mirrors that gave Emma a jolt when she caught sight of her pale-faced reflection. Everything had the sense that you should look but not touch; she remembered when Wendy had hosted her here during Thanksgiving of their sophomore year, and she lived in perpetual terror of breaking a priceless heirloom. There wasn't even such thing as Kleenex, as all the hankies were monogrammed lace. There was a nursery upstairs that Pan always knew the way to. The gamble she and Killian had risked everything on, in order to follow David to Neverland. Which meant he could find her again here.

Shaking away the memories, Emma followed the butler to the kitchen at the back of the house. She gratefully accepted his offer of hot tea, chilled through from her walk, and waited. While he was gone, she used the interlude to check her phone. Still no sign of Killian.

Tonight, she told herself. If he didn't call or text her back by tonight, she'd raise a dozen different kinds of hell until he did. She knew he had a lot on his plate, and didn't want to nag him unduly. Didn't even know how or if she should, really. Oftentimes it felt as if they'd skipped over a giant chunk of the relationship textbook. He'd proposed marriage just a few days after returning from his years-long exile in Neverland, and she'd accepted not long later. Even if they were engaged, living together, and expecting their second child, they were strangers relearning everything about each other. Sometimes, she thought that if David hadn't been kidnapped, throwing them into a fraught, desperate emotional situation, she would have done better to keep Killian at arm's length for a good while longer. Just get to know him first, without the expectation of marrying him too. Her parents' voices whispered in her head. Worse than their polite but persistent skepticism was the fact that she shared it. Not that she wanted to leave Killian, not that she wanted to deprive David and the new baby of their father, not any of that. But sometimes. . . it gnawed at her. She couldn't deny it. It did.

"Miss Swan?"

Emma jumped, nearly spilling her tea, as Jane Darling James stepped into the kitchen: a well-bred, sedate English rose in her late sixties, silver hair neatly coiffured and expression welcoming but curious. "Or pardon, is it Mrs. Jones now?"

"No, still Swan. Wedding's not until, uh, later." Flustered, and having a guilty feeling that the older woman might not approve of having two children out of lawful matrimony, Emma coughed and offered her hand. "I'm so sorry for dropping in on you out of the blue."

"My daughter's moved away, I'm afraid," Jane commented. "She's taken a position as the acquiring editor of a publishing firm in New York. Have you kept in touch?"

"A little." Emma wasn't good at maintaining friendships. She still had no idea how Wendy had given her so much, and asked for nothing in return. Been so patient with her walls and her silences and her stubborn, independent solitude, her pride, her pigheadedness. "Actually, though, I was hoping to talk to you. About – about your mother."

Jane regarded her for a moment longer, in which Emma had the distinct feeling that she was being subjected to some sort of test. Then the other woman let out a breath and sat down, taking a chocolate biscuit from the plate and clutching it as if a sort of shield. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry," Emma began carefully. "I know it must be difficult to talk about. But you know that Granny Wendy left myself and Killian a large amount of money in her will, which she explicitly instructed us to use to buy a house in Kensington. She said it was where, if anywhere, 'he' will find us. And this past weekend. . . I think he did. Pan."

As she finished, she winced, knowing how absurd it sounded. Most of Granny Wendy's descendants had been kept in the dark about the truth of their family's past, not learning it until Emma and Killian had arrived in a tearing hurry to get to Neverland. Facing someone as dangerous as Pan, Emma imagined that Wendy had done it for their own safety, and now the thrown rock was casting ripples, drawing them all into its thrall. "I'm sorry," she added lamely. "But I need to know what your mother knew about Neverland. About him."

Jane flinched; there was no need to ask who. Then at last she said, "My mother was a bit of an. . . eccentric, Miss Swan. She had a great deal of imagination, people she knew, wild stories. She always was a dreamer. But as for this, I can't help you. After what happened to my uncles, it was natural that Mother would come up with a fanciful story to explain it. There's not a – "

"Your uncles?" Emma leaned forward. During her entire acquaintance with the Darling family, she had neither met John and Michael, nor heard what had supposedly become of them. And now that she'd started digging through their dirty laundry, she couldn't stop. "What happened?"

Jane's lips went thin. "Please forgive me, Miss Swan. I misspoke. It's an old affair, and a rather sordid one, I'm afraid. Nothing to assist you in your investigation. I very much doubt that my mother's gift to Killian was anything other than wanting to see an old friend and his family decently provided for. Is there anything else I can answer for you?"

Emma was about to react angrily, insist that that family was now in danger very likely because of something Wendy Darling had or had not purposefully been responsible for, when it suddenly struck her what Jane was doing. She herself had already realized that Pan hadn't arrived until she'd given him the opportunity, had believed in him, had opened the window. If Jane had even an inkling that her mother's fantastic tales were real, if she knew that she was _the_ Wendy Darling, she must be doing her best to disbelieve it with all her might. The consequences otherwise could only be disastrous. And if Emma insisted on continuing to force her to do so, she would have to pay the price as well. _I'm not going to get help here._

Choking down bitter disappointment, she got to her feet. "I understand, Mrs. James. I'm sorry to disturb you. Give my best wishes to Wendy, if you would."

Jane eyed her in surprise, clearly not having expected her to concede so quickly. She opened her mouth as if about to say something, mulled it over, then stood up as well. "I have the original copy of my mother's will in the office," she said. "If you think it might be useful to look at?"

"Ah – yes. Thank you." Taken aback, Emma awkwardly sat back down and waited for Jane to return, which she did a few moments later. She unfolded the thick creamy paper on the table, and both women frowned down at it, as if Granny Wendy might have concealed a cryptogram in the margins. She hadn't. There was the handwritten note next to the section mentioning the money to be left to Killian, but nothing else that Emma could see. She ran a finger over the lines, scouring them for any meaning, but it looked like just another –

And then, just then, she experienced a faint tingling, something like a low-level static-electrical shock, enough to make her jerk back in surprise. But the sensation didn't stop. Her fingers felt warm, and on a sudden instinct, she touched them back to the ink. Another spark, and then in front of Emma's eyes, the words shimmered and vanished, revealing another message underneath. Also in Wendy Darling's elegant, old-fashioned calligraphy. An address.

_22 High Street, Marylebone._

Emma's breath caught. She jerked around to stare at Jane, but Jane hadn't seen the letters take shape. This confirmed Emma's sudden and complete conviction that it had been waiting for her, that there had been some kind of spell woven into the paper. Granny Wendy must have known she'd come looking for answers, or at least had wanted to leave her a clue as to who "he" was. Had she _not_ meant Pan after all? Any certainty Emma thought she'd achieved had suddenly and abruptly dissolved into the nether beneath her feet.

"Thanks," Emma said breathlessly, standing up. "That's actually – that's actually very helpful. I'll – be on my way now. Thanks again."

And with that, knowing it was the height of bad manners, but unable to care, she scampered.

* * *

After a brief stop back at her own house to collect a few useful items, Emma hopped the Underground. It was just a few minutes on the subway, and then a walk of several blocks up to Marylebone High Street. It was a chic, attractive, high-end shopping district, winding past red phone boxes and bikes chained to wrought-iron fences, tall brick lofts with gables and cupolas rising above gallerias, boutiques, cafes, and restaurants. The streetlights were lit against the damp, rain-soaked awnings dripped on the sidewalk, and black cabs roared past every other second, making Emma dodge to avoid getting splattered. Despite the discomfort of walking in stiletto heels while close to six months pregnant, she had elected to do so anyway, as these particular shoes had been an essential part of her repertoire while chasing bail-jumpers in Boston. They put her in the correct frame of mind, accentuated her legs to killer proportions, and were more than mildly lethal in their own right. There was more than one perp she'd taken down by ambushing him from behind with one of these bad boys.

Nonetheless, when she finally reached number 22, she was in for an unpleasant surprise. The storefront was empty, a _For Rent – Howard de Walden Estates_ sign hung in the window. In a postcode this exclusive and desirable, she couldn't believe that some fancy retailer hadn't snapped it up already, and that set off her BS detector. She tried the latch. Locked, of course.

Emma shot another glance over her shoulder, but the pedestrians behind her were fully involved with whatever expensive purchase they were making today, and paying no attention. So she stepped up, reached into her purse, and extracted another implement she'd often found useful during her bail-bonding days. It was pleasing to discover that her skills hadn't gone to rust. She had the lock picked in thirty seconds.

Taking another look around to make sure she was unobserved, Emma opened the door, nipped inside, and shut it behind her. She had a moment of indecision about whether or not to lock it, as if circumstances should arise in which she should have to make a hasty exit, the few seconds needed to unlock it might prove costly. Her old instincts reminded her not to get in somewhere unless you were sure of the way out. Unlocked. She'd run the risk.

The floor creaked as she crossed it, making sure to stay close to the wall. There was a dim, narrow stairwell at the back, and she paused, then reached into her purse again, wondering if she should grasp the pepper spray or something worse. She didn't _think_ so. Not really. But it never hurt. Just in case.

There was no sound from above.

Emma went up.


	5. Chapter 5

"Bloody _hell."_

That was the only thing Killian Jones had been capable of saying for the last several minutes, and the only thing he was likely to be capable of saying for several more. He ripped the note from the wall and crushed it convulsively in his fist, as if to wring the words out and dissolve them into thin air, but they were still there when he uncrumpled it. _Bloody hell._ This was even worse than he'd thought, and he'd thought it was damned well bad enough. He was going to have to do this, wasn't he. They'd learn who they thought they were playing with, what they were threatening. Or else.

Bloody hell.

After a moment, still breathing hard, he forced himself to put down the paper and think about this logically, even if that was the last thing he wanted to do. Rushing headlong into what was sure to be, even if by God's own miracle _not_ a trap, still an extremely unpleasant situation with a nice helping of complete fuckery on the side, was not going to win his intellect any awards, a tragic fact considering his occupation. The wise course of action was to phone the police, hand this over as evidence, and otherwise do nothing to get himself deeper in than he was already. But he was a bloody pirate. He had an instinctive and unyielding suspicion of Crown authority (or any authority, really) that went back over three centuries, coupled with his growing belief that the local sheriff's department, conscientious though they doubtless were, was miserably mishandling the entire affair. But what chafed him sore the worst was written at the bottom of the note. How they dearly hoped that his lovely _fiancée_ (underlined thrice for emphasis) and son would not come to misadventure, after such an enjoyable weekend.

 _That so?_ Killian could damned well read between the lines. They were spying on him, Emma, and David. Had been watching the entire time. Had just openly threatened them. And when that was the case, asking him to sit passively while some other man was paid to protect them went against every sinew and fiber in his heart and soul.

At that thought, a renewed surge of anger flared up, catching him in its teeth. He hadn't felt so helplessly furious at the world, determined to destroy it for everything it had taken from him, since the days immediately after Milah. Maddened with the pain of his mutilated stump, his charred and broken heart, drunk, furious, indiscriminately violent, lashing out at anything his new hook could catch. And now someone was trying it again. No. Not this bloody time.

Coming to an abrupt decision, Killian slapped the letter down. Then he marched to the closet, removed the secret panel in the back, and unearthed his old black leather jacket and boots, his sword, and a brace of pistols in their holsters. It felt good, _hellfire_ it felt good, to strap it all on again, build himself back into that skin – not to become it, he reminded himself, but simply to take care of business. He would give anything to have his hook back, just for a few hours, felt it as keenly as an addict in withdrawal. Fortunately, one of his other attachments was still to be found – a short broad-bladed knife, excellent for stabbing miscreants in the skull at close range. He'd done that to Rufio. In through the eyeball and out the other side. _Gods,_ that had been satisfying. Bested the bugger soundly at swords, first, _then_ killed him. No loss to anyone.

Grinning, Killian screwed the blade into the brace on his stump, then made sure it was adequately disguised; it was getting late and dark and deserted outside, but he'd still rather not be caught strolling about whilst quite literally dressed to kill. If he _was_ nicked, he'd say it was for a fancy-dress party; it was almost Halloween. In the meanwhile, however, he had certain matters to attend. Was going to get his property back, and deal with whoever had taken it, before they got a damned idea in their head about once more hurting anyone else he loved. Without them, without Emma and their children, he was nothing.

Thusly attired, Killian locked the flat and stepped out into the streets. It wasn't getting to where he was going that would be the hard part – it would be gaining entrance without raising a hue and cry that would test his connoisseur's skills. But the ransom note had said midnight, and he intended to arrive well in advance. If by morning he was both still alive and gainfully employed, that would be ideal, and he fully intended on it being the case. Still, however. Breaking into the Bodleian Library after hours was not the sort of entry on one's vita that recommended one as a sane, pragmatic, and tenure-suitable individual. _Worse fates, I suppose._

The walk felt shorter than usual, hot with anger as he was. As Killian arrived in Radcliffe Square, his mind was already whirring through the possibilities. He could wait for the night watchman, dot him on the head, and steal his keys, but the discovery of an unconscious custodian in a broom closet by one of his colleagues would definitely hint at nefarious goings-on afoot. There would likely be sophisticated security systems to contend with as well. But Killian had weaseled into (and out of) many an infamous fortress in his day, and the idea of being outwitted by a bloody library – an old and storied and invaluable library, perhaps, but still a library – was a grave affront to his _other_ professional reputation. This would have to be executed carefully, aye, but it was by no means impossible.

The first step was to scout for the security cameras. Wretched inventions, in Killian's opinion, but such was life. Once he'd plotted a route that involved avoiding them, or keeping his back to him so all they'd register was a formless black blur, he had arrived at the inner archway and was briefly tempted to hack his way through one of the heavy wooden doors. But as that was the opposite of clandestine, and he needed to get closer to the Radcliffe Camera, the handsome domed rotunda that adjoined the Bod – his destination being the underground passage that connected the two – he'd have to cross the courtyard. Which in itself was no crime; people cut through all the time. So he did, adopting a casual stroll before reaching the shadows of the other side. If he didn't want to put out a window, he had no choice but to pick the lock.

Right. Lock it was.

Killian leaned in with the tip of the knife attached to his left wrist, using his good hand to take out his phone and pretend to fiddle with it (in actuality, silencing it to prevent it from going off at an inopportune moment) in case someone passed by. It was a delicate and hair-trigger operation, but once again, he'd had far worse. Thirty seconds later, the latch clicked and lifted, and he slithered inside.

A red light blinked in the darkened corridor. The system had detected unexpected ingress at unauthorized hours, and was going to set off an alert unless he entered an override. Well, bugger that. Killian economically solved the problem by burying the blade in the display with a soft crunch of breaking glass. It fizzed and sparked, blue snaps of electricity like eerie corpse-candles in the dark, then died.

There was liable to be another camera nearby. Killian flattened himself to the wall and sidled along, carefully testing his weight on the cantankerous old floorboards. Fortunately, he'd spent enough legitimate hours here that he had an excellent map of it in his head, an advantage he had rarely enjoyed with his other targets, and he knew where the entrance to the underground tunnel – and the now-defunct system that had shuttled books back and forth from the Camera to the Bod to the New Bod – was to be found. He descended the stairs, took a turn and then another, checked once more that the coast was clear, and darted across the hall to the door beyond.

A few moments of intense work later, he eased it open and stepped into the tunnel, now called the Gladstone Link and refurbished with shelves, reading space, and study carrels. But he knew this wasn't what they'd have in mind. They weren't going to hand back his purloined papers by the photocopier and thank him for his time. No. It was going to be the old conveyor.

Killian crossed the floor and sized up the prospect. The conveyor ran under Broad Street, now an archival curiosity instead of a functioning workspace, a dark mechanical maze of beams and tracks that served as the perfect obstacle course: there was no way to retreat quickly, or even at all. He'd have to climb through the tunnel carefully, trapped like a ship aground, with no way of knowing if they'd somehow found a way to restart the apparatus. _That_ was a bloody horrifying thought, with no way of exorcising it once it had arrived, and he was forced, one final time, to consider what he was doing. He still could get out of here and fetch the police, send them down into this abyssal warren instead. Explain what he was doing dressed all in black with a load of antique but fully functional weaponry, why he was sporting a knife for a hand and had used it to destroy an alarm system, and all the other uncomfortable questions any constable in their right mind would ask first off the bat. Only for the fact that the letter had made it quite clear that if he did, if anyone arrived here other than himself, alone, at the appointed hour, the reign of terror they'd wreak would be unmatched. He would lose. Everything and everyone.

Before, Killian had made all sorts of gambles with loaded dice, had blithely risked himself in far worse situations. But he wasn't willing to shoot craps with Emma and David's safety, already hideously aware that he'd endangered them enough, and this had to be settled now or never. Just him, then. Just him.

He had to take extreme care at picking this lock, and here was where his luck finally ran short. No sooner had he carefully decoupled the latch, and started to ease it open, when a blaring klaxon cut through the silence, a red light flashing like a laser scope. The emergency track lights along the bookshelves switched on, casting pools of bleached-bone glow, and there could be no doubt that security of some sort was speedily on the way.

Swearing under his breath, Killian shot through the door and jerked it shut behind him. Inching along in pitch darkness, listening through the wall as hard as he possibly could, he could hear muffled footsteps, the indistinct sound of voices, as a pair of startled watchmen did their due diligence. Even if they found nothing, this meant they'd go back and review the closed-circuit tapes, looking carefully for any irregularities. And no matter how careful he'd been, he had no way to erase those, or be absolutely sure that one of them hadn't caught his face. And after his seven-year-long absence, and how hard he'd had to inveigle to get his job back, he imagined that Wadham would take a very dim view indeed of him being caught breaking into the bowels of the Bodleian at unsociable hours. This would be it. Curtains.

Breathing through his mouth, groping along blind, Killian had barely made it around the bend when he heard the door open, and a flashlight beam swept up and down the walls. Yet there was no other way into the conveyor except for the respective reading rooms at either end (and, for any sane person, no desire to enter) and after a moment, someone said, echoing spookily down the tunnel, "Bloody malfunctioning sensors. Think it's a false alarm."

The flashlight beam withdrew. The door shut with a sepulchral boom, and Killian very distinctly heard a key twist in the lock. He was shut in here, with the alarm re-engaged, and escape without detection would be a virtual impossibility. Especially if something else was chasing him from somewhere much deeper in the darkness. Especially if that was what they wanted.

He felt cold and hollow, unsteady, unprepared. More frightened than he'd been in years. But now more than ever, there was no turning back. There was only forward.

Killian began to walk. He had to move very slowly, sweeping the darkness in front of him, as the industrial hinterland loomed up at strange angles. The tunnel was suffused with the dusty, oily smell of unused machinery, the pneumatics and pistons that had once sent books and manuscripts winging on their way. He couldn't tell where he was; there were no helpful hatchmarks on the walls. When he pulled his mobile from his pocket, it only showed a blank screen: no service, no time. The only use he'd get from it was if he threw it at someone like a brick, a plan with signal drawbacks. Besides, down here in this damp, silent stone tunnel, it was so cold that he could just see the ghost of his breath, billowing silver in front of him. It was gnawing into his body as well, and he carefully worked his fingers, trying to keep them from going completely numb. _Not much farther._

Indeed, he discovered the end by nearly walking into it, and realized that he had reached the terminus of the passage, where it vanished up into the walls. Nowhere else to go, and no fathom of how long he'd be expected to wait. He pulled his jacket closer and leaned casually against one of the pipes, wondering if the confused night watchmen had called for backup yet. If the universe was fair, they'd nab whoever was supposed to be down here to meet him instead, but Killian Jones had learned a long bloody time ago that it wasn't.

An indeterminate amount of time passed. Despite himself, he must have dozed briefly, still on his feet. But he jerked to attention at the sight of an eerie, glowing orb, floating seemingly unsupported down the tunnel toward him, small as a fist at first and then growing larger. He closed his eyes just in time, hoping to preserve his night vision, but could still see the afterglare imprinted on his retinas, until he opened them again and could just make out the shape of someone standing a few feet away. Someone who he recognized. All too well.

His throat felt like chalk. His voice was cold and curt. "Your Majesty."

"Captain." The Queen of Hearts smiled sleekly back at him. She was dressed in stylish black, hair twisted in a chignon, icy diamonds glittering at her throat and ears, red lips and pale, pale face. "I'm _so_ glad to see that we can still count on one another."

"Stuff it up your arse." Killian's hand closed around the hilt of his sword. "Last we saw each other, you were throwing my son down a portal to bloody Neverland. Whatever you think you're getting out of me, you aren't."

Cora clucked. "You've become quite a protective father, haven't you? And learned the pain of having one's child unjustly taken from you? But it may interest you to learn that David – is that his name? – was a means to an end. Nothing personal."

"And that's supposed to _appease_ me?"

"Not in the least." She smiled again at him, demurely, a flash of sharp white teeth. "You're a man of vengeance, Captain. Your blood must be boiling. Demanding answers – do I still work for Home Office? What on earth am I doing here, with all this ridiculous cloak-and-dagger, smoke-and-mirrors flimflam that, I am delighted to see, you are strictly complying with? What might I know about Anastasia? Or, perhaps, certain ghosts that may just have reappeared to haunt you? So many potential fascinating conversations, and all you'll want are your papers."

"Aye," Killian growled. "So it _was_ you. No wonder nobody saw you break into my office. Who did you dress up as this time?"

Cora's smile widened. "Don't you want to at least take a swing at me first? Go on. It'll be good for you. Repressing yourself can't be healthy, my dear."

He was tempted. Bloody hell, he was tempted. But that was what she wanted, and he had to find some way, any way, to steer this meeting back onto his terms. "I don't do that anymore, so you're bang out of luck. Just tell me what you want."

"I have an interest in renewing our old partnership. Brief though it was, and rather marred by your treacherous betrayal in pitching me off your ship, I _do_ think it was profitable for us both. Especially now. Neverland's power is at work in the world, Captain. See?" She held out a dainty gloved hand, and a fireball bloomed into existence above it. "I'm quite fully armed and dangerous. Magic is not in just Storybrooke anymore. This is a game which we all can play."

Killian had been afraid of that. Had suspected it ever since seeing Liam the first time, and this was not the thing to ease his mind. He did his best to flash her a casual, dangerous smile, baring his teeth in return. "Do you think I care about that, pet? A pathetic little fireball?"

"No, I very much doubt you do." Cora was still smiling. "What about this?"

He opened his mouth to tell her that he didn't, he didn't care about anything she could bloody –

And then a strange, hot sensation gripped his wrist – his _left_ wrist – so intense that it almost made him cry out, as the knife fell out of the brace and was followed by the brace itself, as something grew in its place. A finger, another, a third, a fourth, a thumb. Not some fraud or sham or simulacrum, but a working, operable hand. He could feel the blood in it, the warmth, the sensation as alien as if he was opening his eyes for the first time, stepping out into the world, drawing breath. A hand, a real _hand_. He opened his mouth to tell her that he didn't want her poisoned gifts, but the words got stuck in his throat. A sort of strangled croak emerged instead.

"I thought so." Cora tapped her chin. "Isn't it nice, Captain? Wasn't that easy? And the entire reason the magic has been unlocked is because of what happened with your son in Neverland. Perhaps you don't hate me so much as you thought, hmm?"

Killian struggled to find his voice. It barely sounded like his. "Died."

"Pardon?"

"David bloody died in Neverland. It was only luck he was saved. Whatever you're playing at, I still don't want any part of it."

Cora raised a plucked eyebrow. For the first time, she looked mildly surprised. "Oh yes. I was hoping to talk to you about that. When the princess kissed your son, that's when it happened. He was saved, and Neverland's magic _changed_. Became unbound, entered this realm, and now it can do all sorts of things in the wrong hands. _Emma_. Such a lovely name for a savior."

"You stay the bloody hell away from my family, witch."

"And you started out with _Your Majesty._ I had _such_ high hopes." Cora sighed, like a teacher disappointed in a star pupil. "I want to talk to her. That's all. Won't you introduce us?"

"Over my dead body."

"Even if it meant keeping that hand? Permanently?"

"I care about Emma more than I care about some damn tricked-up hand."

"You really think you do, don't you? But come now. She's still not telling you so much. She doesn't trust you. She still, in the back of her head, expects you to do the worst thing, and that's why she won't share. You're a _pirate_."

"You don't know anything about us. I've heard enough. Give me back the papers, or – "

"Or?" Cora looked amused. "So you don't think the fact that Pan is alive, is here in this world of yours – is in _London,_ actually, and Emma hasn't told you – isn't in the least bit concerning?"

"I don't care if it's the bloody – what?"

"Oh, so you _don't_ know. Alas. Well then, I'll make this brief. Yes, Pan is _most_ alive and well, and he's been paying your dearest fiancée a few visits. He and I, regretfully, no longer see eye to eye. He would prefer to have Neverland's magic put back where it was, contained as a power source for his use alone, whereas I quite see the advantage in having it here. To do so, he is attempting to recruit Emma, operating under the assumption that if she opened the door in the first place, she must have the power to close it. I am afraid he will not take no for an answer."

"You're lying," Killian said automatically. "She'd have told me." _Would she have? As you've told her about this?_

"Ask her. If you get the chance."

"I intend to."

"Then why not accept my bargain?" Cora took a step closer. "I can protect you both from Pan, _and_ your son. I understand that Emma is expecting another child as well. The delights of family life. I'd have never pegged you for the sort, Captain, but once we become parents, we all have to make sacrifices. You'll do the wise thing here. You'll accept."

Killian clenched his fist. The right hand, the one he knew was real, not whatever confection of sorcery and lies she'd spun onto his left. He was afraid that if he looked at it at all, if he used it, he'd do anything to keep it, and that terrified him. He had no idea how strong he was, if he could keep holding out. But one thing, one word, still came to mind.

"No."

 _"No?"_ For the first time, Cora's smile slipped, and he saw the Queen of Hearts again. The ruthless murdering despot, the ashes trickling between her fingers – between the crocodile's fingers – Milah collapsing in his arms, lifeless on the deck. "Whyever not?"

"Because you're lying. Because you still have my bloody papers, all my research on the curse and Storybrooke, and you broke into my office to steal them. Because Anastasia didn't just reappear by accident, and for all I know, _you_ were the one pretending to be my brother!" Oh God, no, no, _no_. Anything but that. The idea of Cora masquerading as Liam made him want to be sick. "Because I can be quite sure, Your _Majesty,_ there's no way we're on the same side."

"Oh no. We are. As for Anastasia, we are. . . old friends, and the idea of working together to achieve our mutual goals appealed to us both. As for your brother, I can assure you, it was not me. It's only a shadow of him, of what he could be. A sort of ghost, I suppose. But if you _do_ work with me, if you see to it that all of Neverland's magic is allowed to enter this world without interruption, well then. . . it might just bring him back, mighn't it?"

Killian was silent. He didn't trust himself to speak. She was Cora, she was the worst bloody manipulating, lying, cutthroat, murderous, power-hungry bitch in existence, but she was hitting him in all of his weakest spots: his hand, Emma, David, Liam, his secret fear that he would never be good enough to merit a second chance after centuries of darkness, a happy life in which he wasn't constantly looking over his shoulder. He had to refuse her, he knew he did, but yet again, the words wouldn't come. His tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth.

"Well, Captain?" Cora asked archly. "Some of us don't have all night."

It felt like pulling a knife out of his chest. "No."

"Your papers will be back in your office by morning. All of them."

"Still no."

"And have you thought how you're getting out of here?" She cast an eye at their forbidding surroundings. "It was quite adorable of you to try to do it the old-fashioned way, you know. If you'd just waited for midnight, I'd have taken us both here without half the trouble."

"I said no."

"Stubborn man. As always. By the by, is it true that the town of Storybrooke is keeping my daughter locked up like a common criminal? Regina?"

"Oh, aye. However terrible a parent you think I am, it's nothing compared to you."

It was all he could think of, trying to hit her back somehow, but Cora just gave him a pitying look, as if the attempt was so pathetic that all she could do was feel sorry for him. "Regina's imprisonment is very much to my concern, and I'll be doing something to address it, you may have my word. As well, all I truly need from you is for you to take me to Emma. She's the key to this, you know. I can teach her so much, and it's for her own good."

"Bugger off."

"You're getting impolite, Captain. A sure sign that you're frustrated. Where's the gentleman? And I might add that I'll enlist her cooperation one way or another, but it would be so much easier for us all if you'd just play your part."

"No."

"Very well. I see that while I have the greatest concern for _her_ safety, I need not trouble myself in the least about _yours._ We're through here, then. Don't worry, I'm sure she'll eventually find someone else who deserves her far more than you. Oh, and I'll have that back, please. I don't waste my gifts on the undeserving."

With that, Cora made a leisurely, bored gesture, as if she could not possibly be arsed to expend a single further drop of energy in humiliating him, and Killian – cognizant enough of his danger to completely forget everything he was well aware of about not being able to hurt her – was brought up short in his lunge by a blazing pain in his left wrist. He hissed, staring at it, as the hand twisted and writhed and withered away like a cut vine, the magic undone, the fingers and thumb shrinking until it felt as if every bone, large or small, had been replaced with a hot iron rod, the flesh stretched and then shrunken. In an instant more it was nothing but its usual scarred stump, still throbbing with phantom pain, worse than he'd had it since Pan had taken it for the second time, and in said crucial instant, there was nothing left of Cora but a cloud of dark violet smoke. He had the distinct impression it was laughing at him.

Eyes watering, swearing, furious with himself and all sorts or practices or practitioners of magic anywhere who had ever existed for any reason whatsoever, Killian wheeled around and began to lurch away down the tunnel, not even caring at this point if the night watchmen should be lurking on the other side of the door to nab him when he stuck his head out. All he cared about was getting out of this wretched dank dark cold hellhole and home to bed, preferably without an intermediary visit to the police station, and all he could hope was that Cora (lying murderous _bitch_ ) had kept her word and returned his papers, otherwise this entire expedition was for nothing. His head was still spinning. So Pan really _was_ alive and well? And wanted Neverland's magic put tidily back where it belonged, whilst Cora wanted it further loosed? No good option there, if it could neither remain nor leave. And Emma. . . Emma the key to it, Emma the one who had changed everything, Emma the savior, and now they both were hunting for her. . .

His return journey was even more unglamorous than his first, as he clambered over the bars and beams of the conveyor and muttered various imaginative epithets the entire time. Indeed, he was so distracted that he walked quite past the door, and had to frown, stop, realize that this was the case, turn back, and grope the other way, figuring he'd just bash his way through and bloody scarper for it when the alarm went off. There was nothing undignified about knowing when one was overmatched and should run and live to fight another day. Pirates were not generally mistaken for heroes. Even more rarely did they make glorious ends.

 _Isn't that the truth._ Killian's mouth twisted savagely. Still, deficient as he might be, there was nothing in this life to induce him to give up Emma, to sell her out, to leave her, and the instant he got out of here, he was calling her. Rearrange or reschedule his commitments, if he needed to get down to London and protect her and David. But she was more than capable of doing it herself, if he told her (why hadn't he just done it?) and he needed to reach the door and. . .

. . . It wasn't there.

This time, Killian stopped dead in his tracks. The first time, he'd thought he'd just walked past it, but now he was certain of it, recognizing the place where he'd come in, where the windows into the Gladstone Link were supposed to be, where the door was supposed to be. They weren't there. Nothing but a thick sheet of weathered bronze, studded with rivets, locked down more securely than a bank vault. No door. Nothing.

Cora's voice echoed in his head. _And have you thought how you're getting out of here?_

"Oh, bloody hell," Killian said aloud. He had to fight very hard to ward off panic, knowing that it would be of absolutely no use in the present situation in which his own stubbornness, pride, and idiocy had enveloped him. He supposed that if he wished, he could still retract, agree to Cora's plan. There was no way he was going to do that – but if it meant being trapped in here – if he could lie, if he could double-cross her (he _had_ done it once before, but. . .) – but he was _never,_ under any circumstances, going to betray Emma, would only leave if she told him to his face to go, refused to let their family, so small and fledgling and fragile, a flame of hope in a sea of darkness, be torn apart again –

"Oy!" he shouted, banging on the wall. "You lot! It's me! I'm the one who set off the alarm earlier! Don't you want to come nab me? Open the bloody door!"

There was no sound from beyond. The sheet metal absorbed his shouting and pounding philosophically, and Killian knew with a sickening certainty that they could not hear him, that nobody could hear him. Cora had trapped him as neatly as a hare in a snare. The only way to get out of here was to agree to turn Emma over to her.

 _No._ Not for one moment would that be a possibility. Despite the agony still sizzling in brief, heart-stopping spasms up his left arm, Killian was suddenly and viciously glad that she'd taken the hand away again. He didn't need it, not like that. Didn't need her, or her magic, or her villainy. But of the many occasions he'd had to imagine his death, somehow he had never come up with the scenario of being trapped in a library basement and slowly and ridiculously starved to death. The sheer ignobility of it, the idea that one day in the future they might find his moldering skeleton down here and he'd become a colorful bit of local lore, some arcana about the ghost of the Bodleian, was even more intolerable. _Especially_ with the knowledge that with every passing moment, Emma and David were in terrible danger and he could do nothing to help them. That would kill him, drive him mad, far faster than hunger or thirst or cold.

Killian tried prying at the rivets with the tip of his sword. Tried feeling along the floor to see if there was a crack where the door should be, tried ramming it with his shoulder in case there was a weak point somewhere where the wall did not really exist, and only a fragile tissue of illusion. Tried everything he could think of, but was finally forced to admit that there was no way out. Live and betray Emma, or die and lose her anyway. A complete bloody devil's snare of a choice.

He swore again. His temperament would not permit him to sit down and meekly wait to die; he'd wear out his boots pacing from one end of the tunnel to the other, hoping that some magic portal had appeared, or that Cora had returned to gloat, or _something._ He would have done it, too, if he had not become aware of a faint, far-off thunder in the darkness, coming closer fast.

His heart clenched, his throat going dry. He stared madly into the gloom, but couldn't see anything. Just hear the sound like a great mechanical beast coming to life, shaking off centuries of sated sleep. And it was in that, understanding, he dove for cover a split second too late.

The conveyor was moving. No, _exploding._ It spewed bolts everywhere, the belt creaking with a speed it had never attained in its normal days of operation, the framework shaking with the force, empty canisters shooting like bullets off the track. One of them derailed and hit Killian, catching mostly his arm which he had thrown up to ward off the blow, but getting enough of his face that he could feel blood dripping from a gash above his eyebrow. Another one hit near his leg with enough force to make the cement floor shake, and he kicked away a third that was struggling toward him with nigh-on demonic energy. A scatter of broken metal pieces clocked him soundly in the back, knocking his wind out, and another one scored his black leather jacket with an apparent fury that it could not do the same to his flesh. Madness. Madness everywhere.

Killian blocked or knocked away the canisters swarming at him like a horde of vengeful metal bees, but his fond hope that they had to eventually run short was not gratified in the least. They kept coming, over and over, battering into him from every direction at once, their sharp edges catching him with small flashes of pain. He knew, like a man beset by a pack of wolves, that if he went down he was dead, and he was determined not to give Cora that satisfaction. Not that it seemed to make much difference in his likelihood of surviving the night anyway, and he was forced to recognize that after over three hundred years, his number might just be up.

He kept swatting the attacking machinery away. It didn't stop. The belt came unwound and slithered across the floor toward him like a snake, and he kicked at it, but it still tangled around his boots, binding his legs. And then as he was engaged in scraping it off, a canister came out of nowhere and caught him completely blindsided, setting off an explosion of white stars and sparks in his vision and sinking him to his knees, dazed. He raised his left arm, but there was no hand there. Barely even an arm. The world, the underground tunnel, was receding into another, into a haze of brightness, further and further and further away, and then it was going silent, and something was wrong, he'd always heard (hah) that hearing was the last sense to go when you died, and _no,_ he wasn't dying –

Except he was –

And then there was only darkness.

Only silence.

Nothing.


	6. Chapter 6

The stairs were steep and uneven, old-grained wood creaking beneath Emma's heels, and she paused to slip them off. She continued the climb in her stocking feet, and shortly reached a cramped landing with a skylight; it admitted a grey flat light that made everything look disused and dusty, eerie, washed out. There was another flight of stairs beyond, and after a moment to catch her breath, she started up. No sound. No way of judging the potential situation. She hadn't brought her gun, as the UK laws about firearms were quite a bit more stringent than in the States, and still had confidence in the stilettos as a weapon. If anybody was even here, that was.

It occurred to her that if she was caught, she didn't really have a plausible cover story. She could bullshit something about being a leasing agent inspecting the building ahead of a potential client, but that ruse would dissolve under even the most perfunctory of follow-up questions. Her fingers still itched and tingled from the spell they'd encountered in Wendy Darling's will, and she was suddenly disposed to wonder, if it came down to it, if she could do something else. Work it consciously, in self defense. . . or in attack. She'd always thought that magic didn't exist in this world outside of Storybrooke, but if Pan was telling the truth about anything, that was no longer the case. All of Neverland's countless thousands of dreams and nightmares and powers and phantoms and illusions, all its old and potent wellsprings of sorcery, were available for use. On second thought, she probably shouldn't use it after all. If it was anything like the rest of Neverland, it was deeply and fatally poisoned.

In either case, Emma didn't have time to ponder it. She had reached the top of the stairs, and discovered nothing but a narrow door, shut and locked. She was just eyeing it up, judging the prospects of getting through it, when she noticed something to give her quite a turn. Etched into the wood at eye level, right where the knocker would be, was a small and perfect carving of a flower – and not just any flower. It was a nearly exact replica of the tattoo on her wrist, which she'd gotten freshman year in college on a night out with her friends and never thought much about since. A cinquefoil, she'd found out later. It had a long and storied history in medieval royal heraldry, which considering what she now knew about her lineage, did make sense, but. . . to see it now,  _here,_ almost as if it was waiting for her. . .

She considered. Then she put her hand on the knob, and turned.

It opened.

Blinking, Emma stepped through into a cramped, steep-roofed attic room. The shelves were piled with books, large and small, from gilt-edged codices to fat paperback spy novels, and every square inch of space had been forced to accommodate far more varieties of knick-knack than seemed humanely possible. Mirrors, ornamented boxes, gold and pewter figurines, chess pieces, some strange setup probably straight from an alchemist's dungeon in the fourteenth century, heaps of papers, curiosities preserved behind glass or stuffed into pickling jars, model ships, paintings in old ornate frames and several rolled canvases, a (fake?) sword, playbills from the West End, a Tower of London in a snowglobe – and, rather more prosaically, a heap of greasy wrappers from the local chippie, as Emma had learned to call the fish-and-chip takeaway establishments that dotted nearly every corner in London. In the middle of the chaos sat a desk, containing a sleek titanium laptop, a green banker's lamp, a small agate turtle, and a coffee mug. The junk was valiantly attempting to conquer this last frontier, but had not quite succeeded.

Emma stood still, staring around. It looked very much like the lair of an eccentric academic –a breed that, thanks to Killian, she was passingly familiar with. At least it wasn't some terrifying shut-up garret containing a torture chamber or an insane wife, all of which made her inclined to feel rather relieved. She moved toward the desk and picked up one of the envelopes, searching for a name or an identifying marker, anything to –

"It's rude to read other people's mail, you know."

Emma managed not to make a sound, but it was close. Her heart sped up several thousand notches, and she spun around, banging her shin on the desk. The presumed owner was standing in the doorway, watching her quizzically; he must have been down the hall using the bathroom or something, and discovered a strange blonde woman rooting around in his stuff when he returned. Nor did he look like a serial killer or other kind of deranged lunatic. Just a young man with a mop of brown hair and thick, straight eyebrows, a plaid shirt and jeans and corduroy jacket and an offbeat, hipster vibe. A young man who was faintly, immediately familiar, but she couldn't say how or why. He was taking quite well to her appearance, hadn't tried to call the cops or anything. Almost as if he'd expected her. God damn it,  _where_  did she know him from?

"I'm – sorry." Emma put the purloined envelope back down on the desk. "I. . . I. . ."

Just as expected, her total lack of a good explanation showed up to bite her in the butt. But still, he didn't look pissed. "Well, come on then," he said, moved in further, and closed the door. "Let's talk."

"Oh?" As inoffensive and tweedy and geekily cute as the young man might be, that didn't mean Emma was keen on being shut into a room with him, in an empty building where she'd already broken in against the rules. She took a better grip on the stilettos; if he started anything touchy-feely, she'd nail him. "What's your name? Do I know you?"

He thought about it for a second. "You can call me Mr. M."

"Mr. M? What?  _Seriously?_ You're going to tell me you're the head of MI6 now or what?"

"If I was, I certainly wouldn't  _tell_ you, would I?" He grinned, a friendly, disarming expression that seemed (bizarrely) genuine. "But I don't do martinis, and I've never jumped out of a Lamborghini in slow motion with a gun in each hand and a beautiful woman on my arm. I just happen to share an interest in discretion. Names are dangerous. Especially considering who's looking for us."

" _Us?"_ Emma said suspiciously. Hipster James Bond was definitely getting a faceful of Jimmy Choo if he kept up along these lines. She shot another look at the door.

"Yes, us. We're on the same side."

"Then why won't you tell me your name?"

"Are you going to tell me yours?"

She hesitated. "Maybe."

"It's all right," he said placatingly. "I promise, I'm not going to hurt you. I'm so happy you found me at last – I always knew you would. I'll explain eventually, one day, when I can. I promise. Just. . . don't feel guilty, all right? You did what you had to. I understand."

Emma stared at him. Her lie detector had thus far found nothing to openly disagree with, but she was even more rattled by how familiarly he spoke to her, as if they were old friends reunited again after a long time, and he felt as if his words, his absolution, was genuinely important to her. "Yeah," she said weakly. "Sure."

"Anyway." The young man waved it off. "We've got a lot of work to do. Grab the chair right there, and we can get started. There are a few different things we can try. Obviously, we're going to have to be flexible and inventive, given the circumstances. But I'm confident that we – "

"Hold  _on!"_ Emma burst out. "What the  _hell_ are you talking about? What are we doing? Why is there even a  _we?_ I'm not just sitting down for a friendly chat like we've known each other all our lives? Fine, you're not going to tell me who you really are. What do you  _do?"_

The young man eyed her in surprise. "I'm a writer. Of a sort."

"And that means?"

"I write things, and create them into existence. Somewhat. Again, as I said. It's imprecise."

"So you're a. . ." The conclusion was dawning on Emma, both hopeful and horrifying. "You're a magician." Something else occurred to her, about another man who'd written things that then apparently came to pass, the one who'd kidnapped David and brought her to Storybrooke in the first place. "Do you know someone named August W. Booth?"

Hipster James Bond (or was that now Hipster Harry Potter?) shook his head. "No."

Right. Names were dangerous, and all that. Even if he worked intimately with August, he probably didn't do it so openly. "So," she pressed. "What do you do, exactly? And why on earth would you need  _me_ for this?"

"Here _."_ The young man went behind his desk, pulled the laptop off, and unlocked a drawer, removing a glass ampule full of some thick dark blue ink, with an old-fashioned eagle quill stuck jauntily out the top. He set it down, reached in again, and unrolled a sheet of parchment. Dipping the quill with a faintly magisterial air, he stuck his tongue between his teeth and scratched out a few quick words, Emma watching him like a hawk the entire time. "Now look."

Dubiously, she did so. It was just one line.  _An old man walks down a lonely country lane on a midwinter's evening._

"Yeah?" Emma said skeptically. "What's that for?"

"It's just a demonstration." For the first time, the young man sounded slightly annoyed. "This is what I mean." He tore off the strip of parchment, lifted it up, and blew on the glistening ink.

Emma stared. The parchment shimmered and coiled, the ink escaping from the parchment and into midair, where it quickly figured itself into a tiny blue picture: quick sketches of snow-laden trees, a narrow snowy lane, and a bent, shuffled silhouette moving down it with slow taps of his stick. For a moment, Emma could feel the frigid air, could smell the clean sharp scent of it, could see a few snowflakes drifting out to land on the young man's desk. Then the ink image raveled up on itself and disappeared, leaving nothing but a whiff of woodsmoke in its wake.

"That's. . . impressive," Emma said at last. "But what does it do, exactly?"

"That's the point. I can make an image alive for a few moments, but I can't sustain it, and I can't make it happen. If I had the real power, I would have actually  _made_ the old man and the wintry lane and all that. We'd have been able to enter into it. Do what we needed to do. It would be three-dimensional, magical, real. You see?" Mr. M (she still preferred Hipster Harry Potter) leaned eagerly forward over his desk. "You get it?"

In fact even she, Emma Swan, stubborn skeptic, thought she just might. If what he was saying was true, the way to defeat Pan, to close off the gushing geyser of dark Neverland magic, would be as simple as rewriting it, creating a space where they could go in and change what they needed to. Wasn't that how fairytales had come to exist in the first place? Someone had written them down, created them with the power of imagination? Told and retold them, memorized them, given them life? If that was the case,  _rewriting_ them was almost the absurdly obvious solution. But to go against a fairytale as strong as Peter Pan, a cultural mythology rooted so deep that it was part of common knowledge, the boy who never wanted to grow up. . . the amount of magic they'd need, the amount of invention, the ability to sustain, to recreate. . . it boggled her mind. Knowing what they had to do was one thing. Actually doing it was very, very different.

 _If he even wants to help you fight Pan,_ Emma reminded herself. She didn't trust this guy at all, even though – bewilderingly – her instincts wanted to. What was to stop him from recruiting her, refining his craft and getting it to work, and then writing a few lines to capture her? Snow White and Prince Charming's daughter, the savior of Storybrooke, caught like a genie in a bottle. Not that Emma really thought that much about that part of her identity; it scared her, repulsed her, and intrigued her by turns. But there might be someone –  _was_ someone – who thought this meant something. Made her some kind of magical prodigy. When all she had done, barely, was to save David's life with a kiss in Neverland, break a curse on her hometown, and uncover a spell in the margins of Wendy's will. Did Wendy want her to be here? Emma liked to think that the old lady had her best interests at heart, but why? Wendy Darling had lived years and years knowing far more about Neverland than she'd ever said.

"So?" Hipster Harry said anxiously. "You're ready to work on this, aren't you?"

"I. . . wait. What exactly do you think I'm supposed to be doing?"

He looked stumped. "Supply the magic, of course. You're much stronger than I am."

" _What?"_

"What?" Hipster Harry blinked. "You're. . . you're trained, aren't you? You found me here, you came in, you knew it was – "

"That wasn't magic," Emma interrupted. "Those were. . . other skills."

"But I don't. . ." He raised a hand to his face, stared at it, and dropped it again. "But you're supposed to be trained! You just saw I can't do it by myself. We don't have time for you to go through years and years of magical education! This is serious!"

Emma felt herself bristle at the idea, yet again, of not being good enough. "Look, buddy. Whatever you may think, I had no idea that you existed until just now. I'm on some kind of snipe hunt trying to figure out what the hell is happening, I wasn't expecting to walk in here and suddenly get recruited for a secret mission. I – I may have some magic, but it's not what you think. I'm the wrong girl for the job."

"No, you're not. It has to be you! It has to!"

"Well, it's not. Sorry. Unless you want to come clean about who you are and what you want, because I'm not in the business of working with people I don't know and can't trust. Especially – "

She was about to give him a further piece of her mind, for whatever good it would do – it was herself she was mad at, if there could actually be a way to defeat Pan and she was the one holding it back – when a muffled tweedle emanated from her jacket pocket. It was her phone, and looking at the caller ID, she saw it was a Wadham College number.  _Killian._ Finally.

She punched the answer key and held it up to her ear. "You! Where have you been? I told you to call me last night, it's important and I think – "

Somebody coughed and cleared their throat. "I'm terribly sorry, is this Ms. Emma Swan?"

Not Killian's voice. Not him after all. Wishing she had a better place to conduct this conversation than right in front of Hipster Harry, she got up, tried the door, found it unlocked, and escaped into the corridor beyond. "I – yes. Yes, this is she."

"I apologize for disrupting you. This is Marjory Kempe, head tutor at Wadham College, and I was just wondering if you'd heard from your husband today. Professor Jones hasn't appeared for his tutorials, he's not answering his mobile, and I rather thought – well – with the break-in at his office, one really should be careful about just making sure – "

" _What?"_  Emma went cold from head to toe. She couldn't even be bothered with correcting it to  _fiancé;_ it seemed unnecessarily pedantic at the present moment. "What break-in at his office?"

"On Saturday." Marjory Kempe sounded puzzled. "Someone broke into his office and stole a considerable quantity of his papers and research. We've put the police on it, we're certain we'll come up with a suspect soon and – did he not tell you?"

"No." Emma's lips felt numb. "Actually, he didn't."

"Oh." Professor Kempe seemed to be realizing that this was outside her pay grade. "Oh, I'm. . . well, he must have had his reasons, then. Likely he didn't want to worry you. But, well, considering. . .  _have_ you heard from him?"

"No," Emma said again. Something cold and sludgy was avalanching into her stomach. "I haven't. We live in London, I haven't spoken to him or seen him since early last night."

"Hmm." The other woman hesitated. "I don't mean to be indelicate, Ms. Swan, but has he said anything that might make you think he was going to. . . disappear again?"

"No." It sounded like the only thing she was capable of saying. "The last thing Killian's interested in again is  _disappearing,_ trust me. And it's not like he did it by choice the last time either." Oh God, though. What if he  _had?_ Pan was back, Pan was who had ripped him away to Neverland from that hotel room in London – but Neverland wasn't supposed to be the same, Pan was here, he wanted her to fix it – Killian hadn't told her something important, but she hadn't told him something just as much so, and now they were both going to suffer for it, unless –

She had to fight back rising panic. "No," she repeated yet again. "No, he wasn't going to disappear. He's supposed to be there."

"Ah." The head tutor paused again. "Ah, well. I see. Once more, I apologize for the interruption, Ms. Swan. Have a pleasant day." The phone clicked, then buzzed silent.

Emma stood there staring at it. Any bone she might have had to pick with Killian about being less than forthcoming with whatever had happened at his office was occluded with a sudden and crippling concern for his safety. No matter his flaws, he  _wouldn't_ just vanish again and leave her hanging; she knew it was his greatest fear. Not if it was remotely in his power, and it wouldn't be all right, nothing would be all right, until she found him and worked out what was going on.

She had just taken a step toward the stairs, not knowing or caring what Hipster Harry thought of her abrupt departure, when the door opened and he emerged, looking confused. "Are you leaving? But we're not finished!"

"Actually," Emma said tightly. "We are. My – my significant other is in trouble, and I have a feeling it's bad. That takes precedence over magic lessons, sorry. Maybe – next week or something. Lunch. You know."

She'd expected that to deter him, but he kept pace, jogging after her as she started down the steps. "But I can help! Let me help. I want to show you that you can rely on me. I can – "

"You can what?" Emma said acidly. "Write sonnets at them? I don't think so."

"I can do more than that." He set his jaw. "I'm – "

"What? Bigger on the inside?"

He gaped at her, then recovered himself. "I – something like that. I just – "

"Why does this mean so much to you?" A dark thought occurred to her. "Unless you know something about this and you want to destroy the evidence, or – "

"No! It's not like that! I just thought. . ." He blew out a breath, glanced around, up, down, but evidently came up with no alternative. "Isn't your. . . isn't your significant other Neal?"

Thatwas enough to stop Emma in her tracks.  _"What did you say?"_

"I just. . ." He looked at her plaintively.

"Puppy dog eyes do  _not_ work on me, pal. So you  _do_ know who I am. And who Neal is, apparently. For the record, we dated in college, over ten years ago, and it ended badly. We're not together anymore. Haven't been for a long, long time. So if that was your reason, no."

Hipster Harry looked completely flummoxed. Emma, however, didn't have time for his existential dilemmas. She shouldered past him, descended the rest of the staircase at as fast a clip as she could possibly go without breaking her neck, and emerged into the rain-soaked afternoon. It was a painful hobble-sprint back the several blocks to the Tube station, and she debarked at Kensington High Street a few minutes later, mind racing. She still had to decide what to do about David. She didn't know their neighbors well enough to feel comfortable pawning him off, and she didn't want to drag him on a trip that might end up taking God-knew-how long, especially when he had school tomorrow. Leaving him alone in the house was obviously, likewise, untenable. The only choice was to try to find a babysitter.

Emma did a quick search for "Kensington nanny service," and called the first result that popped up. Such was the day going that she was braced for Mary fucking Poppins to answer the phone, but was put through to someone who sounded more like Margaret Thatcher instead. Nonetheless, Margaret was happy to assure her that the vast majority of their childcare professionals were Norland College-trained (whatever the hell that meant) and that for a modest extra fee, she could supply one who also spoke French, Spanish, German, or Italian, and could cook a vegan, gluten-free, lactose-free, kosher, or non-allergenic diet. Not for the first time, Emma reflected that it was a strange, strange world rich people lived in, and nonplussed Margaret by insisting that she didn't need an exclusive interview or selection process, just someone to pick up her son from school and stay with him, hopefully only overnight, while she was called away on urgent family business. After managing to convince Margaret that she didn't need to inspect any CVs, and was sure she'd be satisfied with whoever they sent, Emma gave her address, hung up, and resumed haphazardly throwing things into her satchel.

Five minutes later, there was a brisk rap on the door, and Emma opened it to discover, apparently, Supernanny on the other side. A Nordic runway-model type who stood six feet tall in ballet flats and who was carrying not a magical carpet bag but a decidedly non-fake Prada purse, Elsa introduced herself, explained that she was working as a part-time nanny while studying for an advanced degree at the London School of Economics (of course she was) and assured Emma that she'd be happy to produce further credentials upon request. Emma told her that it was fine, that David would be perfectly content with dinner, some homework help, and a bedtime story, and wrote out her phone number in case of (another) emergency. Then, with the distinct impression that Elsa was disappointed in the lack of tutoring in organic chemistry or calculus, Emma pulled on her boots, jacket, and hat, and grabbed her satchel and umbrella.

She'd decided on the train as the fastest way to get to Oxford, and caught a cab to Paddington, paying for an express ticket and squeezing onto a crowded car; some gentleman, chivalrously deciding that he should not be sitting while she, obviously pregnant, was standing, offered her his seat, and she sank down with a grateful sigh. It had already been a long day, and she was starting to acutely feel her night of shallow, restless sleep. She leaned her head against the cold windowpane, willing the countryside to go by faster. Just in case, she tried calling Killian again, but it went straight to voice mail. Maybe she'd get there and discover him shut up in the apartment, having totally lost track of time and absent-mindedly let his phone to go dead, but she knew that was complete wishful thinking. Something was very, very wrong.

At last, the train pulled into the Oxford station, and she stepped off, thinking of how just last night she'd assumed it would be two weeks until she was back here. Her heart was pounding sharp and short in her mouth, and the baby, clearly sensing her agitation, was trying out for the Premier League or something, kicking and turning. What was the first thing she should do? Go to the flat or to his office? Maybe someone had seen him by now. Maybe –

"Emma? Emma! Wait!"

Taken badly off guard, she jerked upright, staring around wildly, as none other than Hipster Harry – all right, she was just going to call him Harry for short, it was easier – wriggled through the turnstiles after her, wearing a jacket that he must have filched from his grandmother's closet, an Arsenal scarf, and a beanie. How the  _hell?_

"You," Emma said. Obviously he knew her name if he knew that she'd been involved with Neal, which made his continued refusal to tell her his even more obnoxious. The next question was how he'd found her, which was likely to be just as unprofitable. "Didn't I say that I – "

"You did, but. . ." At least he had the decency to blush. "Next week is too long. I can help, I promise."

"I don't have time for this. I don't need help, and I don't trust you. Now get lost."

Harry eyed her almost sadly. Once again, she was assailed by that ineffable feeling of familiarity, and the fact that her instincts wanted to believe him, but she couldn't shake the conviction that, even if he was older than expected, probably in his twenties, he could still be a Lost Boy, some flunkey of Pan's assigned to trail her around. She wasn't willing to buy it as a coincidence that Pan had talked about reuniting her and Neal, and then this guy had let it slip that he thought they were a thing. Wendy's note might have led her to him, but considering how nebulous the old lady's motives still were, she wasn't going to weight that unduly.

"C'mon," Harry begged. "Just give me a chance. One chance. If I'm not useful, I'll go, I promise. But we both know what you're facing, and you could use a little backup."

Emma hesitated a split second longer. Then she blew out a grudging breath. "Fine. Let's go. But the  _instant_ you try anything. . ."

"I get it," he said, grinning crookedly in a way that made her heart stop. She had seen that smile before. "Death. Disembowelment. The tax man. Lukewarm lattes. Crashing hard drives."

"Right." Emma turned her back with as much dignity as she could muster and traipsed out of the station with her unwanted guest in tow, leading them across the bridge and up Walton Street. She'd expected him to inundate her with attempts at small talk, or otherwise try to get on her good side (as he was doubtless discovering, a cold and remote place accessible to only the most intrepid mountaineers) but he was quiet, as focused on the mission as she was. She appreciated that, without wanting to. She wasn't attracted to him, not in the least, but there was still some kind of connection. The fact that he knew her.  _Something_. The mystery was only deepening

It wasn't far to Killian's flat, and Emma dug in her pocket for the keys. She unlocked the door and stepped inside, noting at once that he couldn't be here; the lights were out, the shades drawn, and it was cold and dim. But that wasn't what she saw. There was a long, ragged gash in the wall, and a ruby-hilted dagger on the floor beneath it. Any doubts whatsoever that his absence was natural went up in smoke.

"Oh my  _God_." Emma's breath escaped her as if she'd been punched. She crossed the room in close to a single bound, frantically fumbling for the light, having the horrible idea that she might see a pool of blood when it came on. But there was nothing, just the knife and the hole in the plaster, and she wheeled around, trying to shut down her overactive imagination before it thought something it couldn't take back. That was when she noticed the crumpled parchment on the side table, and snatched it up.

Her eyes scanned frantically back and forth over it – and over it again. She'd thought it was her fear clouding her judgment, making it hard to focus, but it wasn't. It was just a meaningless jumble of letters, some kind of crossword puzzle on crack, totally useless. What the hell? Was this some kind of coded message, a joke, a discarded bit of – Jesus, where was Killian,  _where_  was Killian, she'd go over to Wadham next, but if there was nothing there she didn't –

"Can I see that?" Harry, frowning, held out a hand.

"Sure. It's useless," Emma said bitterly, practically throwing it at him. Just this morning, she'd been wondering if she'd rushed too hastily into the engagement, and now, she was realizing how utterly not all right she'd be if she lost Killian again, if he was really gone, if he wasn't coming back. She  _couldn't_ think about the idea, couldn't even construct a hypothetical reality in which it might be the case. She'd survive, she'd always survive, but she couldn't imagine  _living._

Harry sucked in his breath. He put down the paper on the table, bent over it, and pulled out his eagle-feather quill. Half to her and half to himself, he said, "It's enchanted."

Emma firmly shut out the droning panic in her ears and swiveled on him. "What?"

"It's enchanted," Harry repeated. "Fairly intricately. It's meant so that only the designated recipient will be able to read it. What's your. . . your significant other's name, exactly?"

Emma hesitated, but couldn't see an alternative. "Killian Jones."

Something flickered in Harry's eyes. Then he nodded and repeated the name to himself, directing letters around the parchment like a concert maestro, as they fidgeted and fled under his quill, rearranging in long marching lines. Fascinated despite herself, Emma watched intently. Wherever he'd learned magic, he'd clearly been trained in it, which meant that he couldn't have just started using it in the few days since Neverland's power had arrived in the real world. Even Storybrooke had been perfectly ordinary until she and Killian had fought a dragon under the library not quite a year ago, and retrieved the bottled elixir that Gold had then used to summon sorcery from the depths of the wishing well. Unless there had been a secret, persistent source of magic here all along (which, Emma was willing to admit, was entirely possible) then Harry's origins were even more obscure than before.

Nonetheless, he  _did_ appear to be helping, and it  _was_ useful after all that she'd brought him. Unless he was just making this up as he went along, of course. There were times when the only thing Emma wanted in the world was to be able to go back to the trusting girl she'd once been, Emma Nolan, the only child raised by her loving parents in a small town in Maine. Sometimes, the loss of that innocence physically hurt her. The belief that things would work out, that the world was benevolent, that just a little faith and trust and kindness would get you a long way. But that was before Regina's turnover and the complete loss of her memory, becoming that cursed self who only knew abandonment and abuse and isolation. Before her parents left her. Before Neal set her up. Before August. Before the ghost of Henry. Before finishing college alone. Before losing Killian to the darkness on that summer's night in London. Before giving birth to David, alone and terrified and in pain, working her fingers to the bone and still not making it. Before the years of just struggling to survive from one day to the next. There was no going back.

At that moment, Emma truly understood why Peter Pan never wanted to grow up, why he wanted to stay in that dreamworld of childhood and irresponsibility and the place where time took forever. When you were a kid, it went by so slowly that it might as well stand still. No wonder Neverland got under your skin so easily. No wonder it took its price. No wonder adults went mad there. She was realizing that she was still prey to the effects herself. Didn't know if it would ever come out.

"Ah," Harry said. He sat back, looking both pleased and apprehensive. "Got it."

"Thanks." Emma swallowed, in a completely unsuccessful attempt to wet her dry throat. Then she whisked the freshly de-enchanted parchment off the table and unfolded it.

Sure enough, the letters had been corralled into an entirely new meaning – a completely terrifying one. It was as brief and to the point as a knife to the gut. It informed the "dear Captain" that if he ever wanted to see what had been stolen from him again, he would present himself promptly at midnight, in the underground passages of the Bodleian Library. It hoped his "lovely fiancée and son" wouldn't meet with any bad fortune after such a nice weekend. It warned that if he took the letter to anyone, particularly the police, it would go very much the worse for him and everyone he cared about, and they'd have no idea what he was trying to say besides. The whole thing downright dripped with cordial, patrician malice, so much so that Emma felt sick even holding it in her hands.  _Who the hell wrote this?_

"Well?" Harry was looking up at her nervously. "It worked, right?"

Emma crumpled up the parchment and shoved it into her coat pocket. "It worked."

Harry galloped after her as she practically boiled out of the flat, possessed of a sudden, manic mad energy. She barely waited for him to get out before she jerked the door shut and locked it again, then descended the stairs two at a time. It was getting dark outside, and she had no idea what time the Bod closed, but she was going to use every trick in the bail bondsperson bag if she had to, in order to get in there.

"So?" Harry panted. "Are we – are we going to the library?"

"Oh yes." Emma's lips set grim and white. "We're going to the library."


	7. Chapter 7

The sun was slipping behind the dreaming spires, casting the square in hoary violet shadows, by the time Emma and Harry pelted up the steps of the Bodleian, joined the last tour of the day, and unobtrusively edged away from the rest of the group while the guide was pointing out the intricate lierne vaulting on the ceiling of the Divinity School. They squirreled around a corner, back into the corridor, and Harry, posing as a confused new student, asked where the underground passage would be. They were pointed in the direction of something called the Gladstone Link, and hurried downstairs before anyone could ask for their credentials. Emma was turning in every direction, waiting for something evil to leap out from the supply closet, but the Link proved to be a regular study space, filled with bookshelves and photocopiers and other items of decidedly non-demonic provenance. A few headphone-wearing students were turfed into piles of papers, wearing the glazed look common to everyone forced to endure an eight-week quarter, and paid no attention to their entrance. Nothing else appeared out of the ordinary: no bloodstains, no signs of an epic battle, or so on. In fact, Emma grabbed her young accomplice by the shoulder and muttered, "Are you _sure_ you did that right?"

"Positive." Harry frowned. "This is the only underground passage. It has to be here."

"Well, it's not." Emma held out a hand. "Let me see that paper again."

Harry dug in his pocket, then stopped. "No," he said, half to himself. "I don't think – "

"You don't think what?"

"It was just a hunch. But – " Harry gestured to the door across the room, which so far as Emma could see, was some kind of entrance into a service tunnel. "That _is_ a passage."

Emma hesitated, then moved closer. According to the placard on the wall, this was a section of the old conveyor, the system formerly used to shuttle books from one reading room to another, preserved for historical interest. She couldn't see what it would have to do with anything, but out of the desire to cover all her bases, reached for the knob. Not that it was going to be unlocked, it was just a nicety, unless she was going to –

She had no idea what happened. But the instant she touched the door, a sensation like a silent shriek ripped through her, so strong that it knocked her sideways and she couldn't remember how she'd gotten there, only that she was down on one knee and gasping as if she'd just been running for miles. She was vaguely aware of Harry hovering anxiously above her, and hoped she hadn't screamed in the middle of the library; they were already starting to attract a crop of dark looks from the carrels. "I'm fine," she hissed. "I just – "

"What?" he whispered. "What is it?"

"Something. Something just. . ." Emma straightened up. "We need to get in there."

Harry eyed the door dubiously. "I take it we're not just going to call the janitor?"

Despite herself, she snorted a laugh. "And tell them what? I think I dropped an earring?"

"It couldn't hurt." He moved to touch the door gingerly, clearly bracing himself for the same kind of shock, but didn't seem to feel anything. "I can't imagine we're going to be clandestine about this if we just barge in. Or – "

Emma wasn't listening. That heat was still burning her fingers, the same way it had when she'd unraveled the cipher in Wendy Darling's will: the undeniable taste and touch of magic. She shouldered past him, braced herself, and put her hands to the door again.

The sensation was somewhat less this time, not quite as much like seizing hold of a live wire, but she still felt it slice through her chest. Wincing, she moved her hands, connecting a star map of sparks, and closed her eyes. She had the instinctive sense that she shouldn't try to force it, but rather that she had to succumb to the emotion. That she had to let down her ever-present walls, and admit to herself just how much she wanted, _needed_ to find Killian. Let it flow through her, and not think about the fact that she was able to use magic here at all was due to Neverland. She'd changed Neverland, she didn't need to fear it, she wasn't going to shrink from it. It was raw and unformed and dangerous, but it was still hers, and this power had been given to her for a reason. She might still be iffy on the whole savior business, but it didn't matter. That wasn't who she was here. Just Emma.

She thought the metal was growing warmer under her fingers, but didn't want to break her concentration long enough to open her eyes and look. Likewise, she hoped that Harry was making himself useful in some capacity, perhaps a low-level spell to keep the students' eyes glued to their books so they wouldn't interrupt at an inopportune moment. _Come on._ Even if this landed them in hot water with irate librarians, it would be worth it. That was, assuming they could even get the fucking –

The door gave way when she wasn't prepared for it. One moment she was still leaning into it, and the next she was stumbling through into a cold steel tomb that smelled like dust – and something else, something that made her take a deep whiff and frown. The stale, metallic scent of dried blood clogged in her throat, registering in the back of her brain before the rest of her consciousness had caught up. Then it did, and instinct took over.

" _Killian!"_ Emma sprinted the fastest forty-yard dash ever, down the tunnel to where the motionless black-clad form was sprawled facedown, head glued in a halo of scarlet-brown to the cement, handless arm outstretched as if to protect himself from some invisible enemy. She knelt at his side, fumbling for the pulse in his wrist. It was there, but so faint and ragged that it took her a moment to find it. "Killian. Jesus Christ. What the hell. Oh God, what the hell. M – Harry – _whatever the fuck your name is!"_

He popped around the door, opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, then saw it and blanched. He vanished again to call 999, and what Emma had hoped to be accomplished in secrecy was instead carried out in front of half the gaping Bodleian, as the paramedics arrived, got Killian onto a gurney, and wheeled him out, while the curators insisted they had no idea how he could have possibly ended up in there, rubberneckers and tourists crowded around, and students shot them baleful stares for causing such a ruckus in the sacred precincts of the quiet study area. Emma and Harry waded through the excitement to the ambulance, where he caught her arm. "I'll look into this," he said in an undertone. "You go with him."

She didn't have time to argue. "Fine. And how are we supposed to get in touch again?"

"Here." He scribbled something on a gum wrapper. "It's my mobile number. Good luck."

With that, he melted into the throng, and Emma pulled rank on the paramedics to let her aboard. They turned on the siren and squealed out – it was always a difficulty for vehicles to wend their way through Oxford's narrow, cobbled, pedestrian side streets – until they hit the High, and didn't stop until they arrived at the hospital in Headington, a few minutes later. As Killian was whisked off into the trauma center, Emma was offered a chair in the waiting room and a cup of tea (an amusingly British comfort, perhaps, but she needed it) and an interlude to compose herself. But if she'd thought she was home free, she was mistaken. A pair of police sergeants introduced themselves very politely, asked if she'd have a moment to talk, and sat down and opened their notebooks. "Mrs. Jones, there's no other way to put this. If there's any information you can give us on your husband's activities, we'd very much appreciate it."

Emma opened her mouth to correct them, then once more decided it wasn't worth it. She had bigger fish to fry. "What's going on? Is he under arrest or something?"

"He's not, but. . ." The officers looked deeply uncomfortable; she doubted it had been their idea to interrogate her while Killian was still in surgery. Likely somebody was getting sent back to the corporate sensitivity seminar next weekend. "You'll be aware of the ongoing case regarding the incident at his place of work, I'm sure? As well, we've just received a telephone call from the Bodleian. Their security footage clearly shows your husband breaking in, causing property damage, forcing his way into a restricted area, and otherwise. . . I do hate to suggest anything of the sort, but is there any chance he could have staged the one at his office as well?"

"I have no idea," Emma said tightly. "Partly because I had no clue this had even happened until a few hours ago. And because I'm pretty sure he didn't do this to himself."

"Of course, of course." They jotted down a few notes. "You do have our best wishes, of course. Is there any way we can be of assistance to you?"

"I – " Emma opened her mouth and shut it. When Killian woke up, she was going to throttle him. "I don't think so."

"One other matter." The questioning officer looked even more uncomfortable. "As a matter of protocol, we're going to obtain a warrant to search both his flat in Oxford and your permanent residence in London. Is there anything you'd like to declare?"

"My _son_ is there. If you're just going to come into the house with the full-court press, then at least let me call and warn them!"

They agreed, and Emma dialed Elsa, to give her a heads-up on the whole ungodly situation and that it was definitely going to be an overnighter. She couldn't squelch the suspicion that the nanny was secretly delighted at having a crisis to handle, but was grateful for the level-headedness with which she was doing so. Yet Emma's composure cracked significantly when Elsa handed the phone to David, and her son's confused voice echoed down the line. "Mom? What's going on? Is Daddy okay? Where are you? Are you coming home soon?"

"Everything's fine," Emma lied through her teeth. "Your dad is just. . . a little bit banged up. I'm not sure what happened, but I'm going to find out. I'll be home hopefully tomorrow, all right? As soon as I get this sorted out. Be good, all right? Do your homework and eat your veggies."

David paused. "Okay," he said, in a strange tone she'd rarely heard from him. It was too old, too cynical, as if he knew exactly what was going on and they were conspiring to keep it from him. But before she could think what, if anything, to say, he told her goodnight and hung up.

Emma sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. This was what she had feared would happen the moment she saw Pan on her doorstep, when she'd been so fucking _stupid_ as to invite him back into their lives. Not even four days later, and things were utterly falling apart, crashing down in flames. As much as she wanted to be angry with Killian for everything he'd kept from her, she was coldly and hideously aware that she was just as guilty. She had to remember what she'd said. Pan wasn't really her son. Henry, if he'd ever even existed, was dead. This was a monster, and she'd thrown him a giant hanging curveball right over the heart of the plate. _Neverland's coming. Neverland never leaves us. Pan never fails._

It grew very late. At last, a nurse's aide emerged to tell her that Killian was out of surgery. He was going to be all right, but if he'd been found a few hours later, it could have been a different story. He had injuries consistent with blunt-force trauma, a mysterious state of affairs considering that no one else had been seen entering or leaving the section of the library where he had been found. Once more, they pressed her for any information, but Emma didn't have it. She just followed the nurse down the hall to his room.

Killian was swaddled in a white robe and blue hospital gown, unconscious. He was hooked up to a profusion of beeping monitors, his stump looking oddly pathetic taped up in gauze and an ace bandage. Emma sat down quietly on the end of his bed, eyes searching the battered and bruised contours of his face; he looked as bad as if he'd been hit by a car. She nodded at the nurse, who made a discreet departure, and waited until he began to stir, grimacing. When she was confident that a minimally functional degree of compos mentis had been attained, she stood up. "So."

Killian grunted in pain, stared up at her, and tried to say something, but couldn't seem to remember it. He rattled at the handcuff holding his other arm to the bed – clearly, they were treating him as a potential felon until further notice. "Again? Fancy this, do you?"

"Never mind. What happened?"

Unaccountably, he grinned, dark and lascivious. "Oh, but you do know just how to care for a wounded man, love. If you want to come a bit closer and find out which parts of me _are_ intact?"

"Killian! What the _hell?_ This is not the time to try to pull the innocent act. Talk. If you don't, you have a lot of sore places. I can make you hurt."

"You look good," he mumbled fatuously, eyes unfocused. "Commanding tone. Chills."

Emma realized just then that her dearest, darling fiancé was utterly blissed out of his mind, might not even be aware that she was her real self, and could not be otherwise roused to give a single fuck about the seriousness of the situation. She was just wondering what might be a sufficient shock back to reality, when Killian said conversationally, "Where's Cora?"

Emma went cold. "What?"

"Cora," Killian repeated. "It was her. Should have seen it." He grimaced again.

" _Cora?"_ Emma's memory of this particular individual was muddy, but what she did recall was alarming enough. Killian had told her about it upon returning to Storybrooke in a mad lather, after David had been taken to Neverland. Something about a witch he used to know, who he'd encountered in the Enchanted Forest, retrieved a magic compass for, and then betrayed. Clearly, Cora hadn't taken it well, as most business accomplices wouldn't throw your son down a magical portal to another world if a deal went bad. The one who had been in cahoots with the Home Office and thus with Pan. It was the least encouraging name Killian could have uttered short of the ringleader himself. "So where is she?"

"No idea." Killian grimaced again. "Hang Cora, anyway. Come here and keep me company, darling. With a bit of tender loving care, I should be entirely satisfactory for your needs, which is more than I can say for other bad days."

Despite herself, Emma couldn't keep a wry smile from plucking her lip. "You idiot. You're the only man in the world who'd try to hit on a woman while flat on his back and completely gorked out of his gourd on medication. At least it's me and not someone who might think you were just a pervert." She sat down again rather hard, reaching out to stroke back a lock of grimy dark hair. "Son of a bitch, Killian. You scared me to _death."_

He had enough presence of mind to look vaguely sheepish, or perhaps that was just the morphine. He turned his head with a muffled grunt of pain to kiss her fingers, then stopped with a look of stupefaction when his mouth actually touched her hand. She could see his face freezing, to be replaced by a dawning expression of horror. "Bloody hell!" he blurted out. "You're _real?"_

"Surprise." Emma raised an eyebrow. "Yes."

"I thought you were a hallucination," he mumbled, looking aghast. "Bloody _hell._ You were being too gentle to be the real thing."

Emma felt a vague prick of shame, as "gentle" wasn't the word she herself would have chosen to describe her bedside manner. "What did you expect me to do?"

"Ream me out for being a selfish bastard and tell me you were done with me?" He cocked a dark eyebrow. "It would have been justified, after all."

"I don't think that would be useful to either of us." Emma sat back. "Look. Killian. We can't do this. We can't play at being a team and being partners and instead just keep sabotaging ourselves all the time and let other people manipulate us. I need to know everything about what has been really going on, and I need to know it now. Otherwise, we can just quit pretending."

He stared at her, then nodded slowly. But he had just opened his mouth when the door opened, and a cohort of doctors and police officers entered, looking uncomfortable. "Pardon, ma'am. But that's been five minutes, and we're going to have to ask you to leave now."

"Why?"

"Because he is, at this moment, a suspect in a crime, and that is sufficient reason to – "

"Really? How do you know?"

"Ma'am, he _is_ on the surveillance footage." The constable's patience was clearly not infinite. To Killian he added, "Do you deny breaking into the Bodleian, Dr. Jones?"

"Hold _on_ a damn second!" Emma angrily shot to her feet. "What the hell kind of interrogation is this? What happened to due process? How about a lawyer? Or, I don't know, any time when he's not shackled to a hospital bed and out of his mind on meds? I want him out of that thing, I want him properly taken care of, and _then_ maybe we can get to the bottom of this. Someone just tried to kill him, and if this doesn't look like an attempted-murder investigation by morning, I am _personally_ ensuring that heads roll. Unless you think he broke his own ribs and concussed himself on purpose, just so no one would suspect anything?"

She was practically spitting fire by the time she finished. The avenging Agents of Justice all looked somewhat shamefaced, but not ready to back down altogether, and Killian fumbled for her hand with his stump. "Emma," he murmured. "Lass, I – "

Emma squeezed his wrist, then let go, still never taking her attention off the authorities. "So," she said. "I'd think about what you're doing. Hard."

After a brief and muttered conference, they decided on discretion over valor, and beat a smart retreat, leaving Emma and Killian alone again. He glanced up with a crooked, admiring smile. "Quite passionate, Swan."

"Oh, shut up," Emma said, but without heat. She blew out a sigh and dropped back into the chair at his side. "So. Got any ideas?"

"As to how we'll prove I didn't do something that I did? I'm quite sure it was Cora posing as me to ensure my face got caught on camera, as I was otherwise most diligently careful to avoid it, but I _did_ break in after hours, and everything else they said. Not that I'm at all proud of it, and wouldn't fault Wadham for sacking me on the spot, but I couldn't let her hurt. . ." Killian trailed off, tense and troubled.

"Yes, but if you were breaking in to, I don't know, steal a priceless manuscript or something, why would you be in an abandoned, disused underground tunnel? Unless they thought you were going to crawl out a vent in a reading room?" Emma twisted a lock of hair in frustration. "Surely they have to see that something doesn't add up here?"

"Emma." The grimness in his tone, and the fact that he'd called her that and not one of his usual nicknames or endearments, made her head snap around. "Listen to me. We're facing Cora, do you understand? _Cora._ As bad as she is on her own, when she has Neverland magic at her free and easy disposal. . ."

"Worse?"

"That barely begins to cover it. There's going to be no evidence. Nothing to catch her. Nothing to point to anyone but me, and why it should ruin my career and my life. She is a bloody _demon."_

Emma sat silent for a moment, staring at the floor. Then she lifted her head and locked gazes with him. "So somebody had better stop her. Her _and_ Pan."

"Don't," Killian warned urgently. "Don't go after them on your own. I know you're a tough lass, but you can't take them on alone. Here's what I want you to do. Do you suppose you could manage the old girl on your own?"

"What? You mean the _Jolly Roger?_ I – think so." It was mainly a matter of activating the right enchantments and taking a few navigational headings; after that, the ship essentially sailed itself. Killian had taken her out for several practice runs in the summer, although it always seemed to cooperate much more for him than it did for her. It was amusing to Emma that the other woman in his life, even if made of wood and canvas, could be so jealous. "Why?"

"I want you to take David and go back to Storybrooke." Clearly seeing her face fall, Killian hastened on, "No, not for good. Just while I'm laid up here in the hospital. You need to go there, find out what this magic is doing, if it's spreading, the effects it's having. There could very well be something there that can help us defeat our terrible twosome."

"Maybe," Emma said slowly. "But you realize that that _something_ is almost definitely going to be in Gold's shop? He's still missing, you know. Nobody's seen him since Neverland, and I'm guessing he left that place locked up pretty tight."

"And you're telling me you wouldn't break in if needed? Or that you wouldn't be able to leverage a single ally? You're the savior, darling. They'll be falling over themselves to help you."

"I just. . ." Emma raked both hands back through her hair. "I'll admit it's the only good plan we have. Or plan at all, really. But if we're going to be a team, a real team, we need to _be_ one, and I can't just leave you here, injured and alone, for whatever Cora wants to try next. And I can't just yank David out of school for a few weeks either."

"Fair point." Killian frowned. "Anyone looking after him?"

"I got a temp nanny. I could probably get her to stay longer if I had to. But Pan – Henry – he's been at our house, he knows where it is, he could just stroll in and kidnap David again if he knew that neither of us were going to be around to stop him – "

"Bugger." Killian frowned. "Then there's no choice. You'll just have to take him out of school. Say it's a family emergency. We can't run the risk of exposing him to that kind of danger again."

Emma nodded heavily. "I just want you to come."

"Love, I would like nothing better, you know that. But as I can presently barely sit up on my own, much less anything else, I would be a dangerous and time-consuming encumbrance, when it is absolutely vital that we stop Cora and Pan _now._ We don't have the luxury of waiting for my broken bits to mend. I'll be fine here. I promise."

Emma paused, then nodded again, biting her lip. "All right," she said, not as steadily as she would have liked. "Let's do this."

"Aye." His gaze never wavered. "Together."

"Even if we're apart." With that, she leaned down and kissed him gently, breathing him in, drawing his lip between her teeth, having to fight off the sudden and sinister conviction that she wasn't sure when or if she would see him again. "I love you, you idiotic, blockheaded, overly valiant one-handed son of a bitch. Take care of yourself, okay?"

"As you wish, my lady." He settled back with a small grunt of pain, and closed his eyes. "Likewise."

* * *

It was almost dawn by the time Emma got back to the apartment, crashed for a few hours, then hauled herself out of bed, made sure to lock the door behind her, and bogged off to the train station. She was almost there when she remembered Harry. Despite herself, she couldn't shake the idea that it might be useful to take him along to Storybrooke. It would keep him safely under supervision just in case, possibly cause him to slip up and reveal his true identity, and account for the reality that no matter how independent and determined she was, there _was_ the fact of her being almost six months pregnant and having a seven-year-old kid to look after. Not that she was going to rely on Harry for bodyguard duty, as he looked as if the only weapons he had ever wielded were an iBook and a nonfat latte while attempting to write the Great British Novel, but still. He'd been handy in a pinch thus far. And if he _did_ turn out to be up to no good, she'd order the _Roger_ to string him up and throw him overboard into the Atlantic. It would be a long and grueling dog paddle back to Marylebone, especially in skinny jeans.

With a sigh, Emma stopped on the street corner, dug her phone out of her pocket, and thumbed in the number he'd given her last night. It rang twice, and then he answered. "Hello?"

"Hey. It's. . . me. Emma. You nearby?"

"Yes, why?"

"Meet me at the train station in twenty minutes. We've got a new mission."

"Awesome!" For a moment he sounded like a little boy on some silly undercover operation, and it made her smile involuntarily. "Be right there."

Sure enough, it wasn't even ten minutes later when he came gamboling up, looking as fresh as a daisy and clutching a large Costa Coffee, which might account for some of the perkiness. As they headed into the station together and checked the board for the next train back to London, Emma said, "So what did you find out?"

"Not much." Harry sighed. "Whoever did that, they were good at covering their tracks. I couldn't even get any real traces out of it. I'm sorry, I – "

"Killian told me who it was." Emma put her ticket through the barrier. "Someone named Cora. That ring any bells?"

Harry screwed up his face. "I may have heard it somewhere?"

"Think harder," Emma advised him. "And just so you know, I have a thing with lies."

"Like a superpower. Because you're magical. You just haven't been trained."

"Yeah, I guess so," Emma said tiredly, as they stepped onto the train. She wished she knew how to give him the proper power to just write Pan out of existence, but she didn't. So she had to go around the long way, undertake this dangerous and uncertain journey with the promise of God knew what waiting at the end. "So, then. Here's what we're going to do."

Harry sat back. "I'm all ears."

* * *

By the time they'd made it back to London, paid Elsa and sent her on her way, packed a few bags, and headed to David's school to pick him up and apologetically explain that he was going to be unavoidably absent for the short-term future, Emma was so tired she was almost seeing double, and wondered bitterly to herself if the savior ever got a day off, or if it was just one fight after another, bad moment after bad moment, piling up and avalanching on each other. By the time they had David in tow and had caught a cab down to the docks, she was almost willing to tune out and leave Harry in charge for a few damn hours, just for a change. But this was her duty. Her job. Time to roll up her sleeves and deal.

Killian's pride and joy was berthed at the end of a quay, looking like an ordinary vessel and certainly not like an old and magical pirate ship that had traveled through several realms and was now going to speed them back to a formerly cursed little town in Maine where a bunch of fairytale characters were (hopefully) going to help them defeat a wicked sorceress and a psychotic preteen. The three of them headed aboard, starting their preparations for departure, and Emma couldn't help but notice how deftly Harry handled the lines. "You look like you've done this before," she said casually. "Tall ship enthusiast?"

"Oh. . . no. I. . . my father taught me. A while ago." He looked uncomfortable. "I can steer, if you want to go below. It's pretty cold up here."

Forcing back a jolt of unwelcome surprise, Emma managed an offhand smile. _He just so_ happens _to know how to handle it?_ What the _hell._ "I'll do it. The _Roger_ can be pretty temperamental and disobedient if she doesn't know you."

Harry shrugged, yielding, and Emma stepped up to the wheel, taking a deep breath and flexing her fingers. Moment of truth, if the ship was going to let her do this without Killian around. She grasped hold of the handles, willing the magic to life, as the sails let out and lashed themselves into place, as the capstan started to rattle and raise the anchor. It was a feeling of pure freedom and power, and despite everything, it made her smile. She could understand why Killian loved the sea so much, why it was in his blood. It made her want to roam far and fast as well.

The _Roger_ backed out, picking up speed, the wind scraping her hair back from her face as they got underway. Emma figured she'd stay at the helm at least until they were out in the Channel; from previous experience, she knew that the voyage shouldn't take longer than overnight, this not being your average wooden sailing vessel. Killian had told her something once about it being the fastest ship in this or any realm, which made her wonder if there was a ranking table for these sorts of things. There was so much she didn't know about the magical world, about the fact that she was supposedly such an integral part of it, which made her wish that they didn't have to be returning to Storybrooke on an urgent mission to stop evil (her parents, oh God, she had no idea how she was even going to _start_ to explain this) but could just be going at Christmas, as planned, with Killian. _No. Of course not._

Darkness was falling swiftly. Harry and David had gone into the cabin, but Emma stayed at the wheel, watching the coastline blur and fade into the horizon. It was peaceful up here alone, watching the wake froth white, feel the thrumming wind of their speed, the ship responding to the small adjustments she made. _I guess they should call me Captain Swan._ Apparently, the question of whether or not the _Roger_ had accepted her was settled, and she couldn't help a small proud grin from stealing across her face. Just a little longer up here, then she'd head belowdecks and see about some –

The first flash didn't register, faint and far off. Nor the second one, not really. It was only the third which made Emma jerk up and glance to port, frowning. The open ocean was flat, black, and tranquil in every direction – except for that one. There was something there, dark and distant but drawing closer fast, and unless she was completely seeing things (something else that she'd heard happened at sea, but she didn't think she was) it looked, very oddly, like another tall ship.

She blinked hard. It didn't go away. It breasted another wave and then it was less than a thousand yards away. Undoubtedly a ship just like the _Roger,_ but much larger, with spectral, tattered sails and eerie, flitting lights, trailing a plume of icy fog. And then, as a fourth flash lit up the night and a thundering boom nearly knocked Emma off her feet, she realized in sudden, paralyzing horror what it was.

Cannon fire.


End file.
